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HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 


[See  page  166 


ALL     WAS     GOLD-GREEN 


THE  WAY  HOME 


A   NOVEL 


BY  THE   AUTHOR  OF 

'THE    INNER    SHRINE" 

(BASIL    KING] 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 

W.  H.  D.  KOERNER 


n 


HARPER   &  BROTHERS   PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK    AND    LONDON 

MCMX!  I  I 


DUBUI6HED   SEPTEMBER.     I8IS 
K-N 


vs 


HS  ?  I 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

ALL  WAS  GOLD-GREEN Frontispiece 

CHARLIE  WAS  CALLED  ON  TO  GO  THROUGH  THE   SAME  CERE 
MONY    FOR   MRS.    LEGRAND Facing  p.    7,6 

"l   MUST  ASK   YOU   TO   UNDERSTAND   THAT   WHAT   I'VE    SAID 

TO-NIGHT  is  FINAL" "       150 

HE    HAD   TURNED, — TO    SEE    HILDA "          452 


1523818 


BOOK    I 


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CHAPTER  I 

Av[  incident  like  that  of  the  missionary  box  could 
not  but  fix  in  Charlie  Grace's  mind  the  approx 
imate  date  of  his  first  conscious  wish  to  be  a  clergy 
man.  Thinking  it  over  in  after  life,  he  reckoned  that 
it  must  have  been  in  1874,  when  he  was  five  years 
old.  While  other  childish  happenings  grew  dim  to 
incoherence  this  one  stood  out  clearly.  He  came, 
indeed,  to  take  it  as  the  starting-point  of  his  personal 
activity,  referring  back  to  it  as  the  beginning  of 
things  rather  than  to  his  birth. 

All  sorts  of  trifles  would  recall  it — a  packing-case 
of  a  certain  size,  a  button  of  the  pattern  on  his  sailor 
suit,  an  old  fashion  -  plate  representing  ladies  in 
chignons  and  Grecian  bends,  the  scent  of  table- 
linen,  a  mention  of  the  Colorado  plains.  The  Col 
orado  plains  in  particular  opened  up  new  realms 
to  the  imagination  of  a  little  boy  whose  horizon  had 
been  bounded  hitherto  by  the  sky-line  of  Vandiver 
Place,  and  whose  most  important  excursions  into  the 
world  had  been  made  on  the  horse-cars  in  Broadway. 

Not  that  Broadway  was  then  what  it  is  to-day; 
nor  Vandiver  Place,  either,  for  the  matter  of  that. 
The  latter  especially  retained  its  character  as  one  of 

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those  quiet  thoroughfares  known  as  residential.  Ex 
cept  where  its  uniformity  was  broken,  on  one  side 
by  a  row  of  gray  freestone  dwellings  in  a  pillared, 
pseudo-classic  style,  and  on  the  other  by  the  quasi- 
Gothic  spires  and  gables  of  St.  David's  Church  and 
rectory,  the  brownstone  front,  with  its  high  base 
ment  and  high  steps  and  quasi-Renaissance  portico 
gave  to  the  little  street  an  air  of  mid-nineteenth-cen 
tury  repose.  Vandiver  Place  was  still  "up-town." 
Wealthy  merchants  and  professional  men  were  still 
its  residents.  The  congregation  at  St.  David's  was 
still  representative  of  "old  New  York."  The  incum 
bency  of  St.  David's  was  still  a  thing  to  be  desired 
by  gifted  or  ambitious  clergymen. 

Charlie  Grace  was  born  in  the  old  rectory.  It  was 
called  the  old  rectory  as  early  as  1874,  though  it  was 
one  of  Robertson's  creations,  dating  only  from  the 
fifties.  As  an  expression  of  architectural  taste  it 
was  inspired  by  the  Oxford  Movement  and  the 
Gothic  revival  as  then  understood.  It  is  a  matter  of 
history  that  Robertson  took  Amiens  Cathedral  as 
his  model  for  St.  David's  Church,  and  as  an  Amiens 
Cathedral  in  Connecticut  brownstone,  dwarfed,  de 
nuded,  and  deformed,  bearing  to  its  original  the  rela 
tion  of  a  wizened  baby  to  a  full-grown  man,  it  stands. 
For  the  rectory  Robertson  got  his  ideas  from  an 
English  deanery,  edifying  the  New  York  of  his  day 
with  a  reproduction  which  was  held  to  be  truly 
ecclesiastical.  Charlie  Grace's  first  impressions  were, 
therefore,  of  doors  with  pointed  arches  and  corridors 
artificially  vaulted.  It  was  in  a  dining-room  with 
Gothic  windows  adapting  themselves  awkwardly  to 
muslin  curtains  and  pots  of  jonquils  in  spring  that 
he  first  heard  mention  made  of  the  Colorado  plains. 

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His  father  had  been  reading  to  his  mother  a  letter 
of  the  kind  familiar  to  well-disposed  persons  as  an 
appeal. 

"Mapleton  is  not  a  town;  it  is  only  a  region  where 
the  shacks  are  nearer  together  than  elsewhere.  My 
wife  and  I  find  it  a  convenient  center  for  our  work, 
while  the  school,  elementary  though  it  is,  offers  some 
opportunities  to  our  children.  We  suffer  chiefly 
not  from  lack  of  food  and  shelter,  but  from  want  of 
books,  clothing,  and  household  necessities.  There  is 
no  town  nearer  than  Proctor  at  which  we  can  pur 
chase  anything.  Our  children  miss  the  natural 
amusements  of  youth,  for  the  country  in  itself 
possesses  few  resources  in  that  direction.  You  must 
understand  that  the  plains  are  not  really  plains  at 
all,  but  great  sand  -  dunes  sparsely  covered  with 
vegetation.  There  are  not  infrequent  signs  of  habi 
tation,  but  on  the  smallest  scale — here  and  there  a 
shack  with  a  few  tiny  outbuildings  surrounded  by  a 
few  meager  cottonwood  trees.  We  are  about  half 
way  up  on  the  long  ascent  of  nearly  five  thousand 
feet  leading  toward  Denver.  As  one  rides  one  sees 
nothing  but  mounting  wave  on  mounting  wave, 
while  one  has  a  sense  of  always  approaching  what 
I  may  call  a  jumping-ofF  place  at  which  one  never 
arrives.  Little  grows  besides  a  coarse  kind  of  grass, 
a  few  wild  flowers,  and  the  sage-brush  dotting  the 
landscape  with  what  look  like  innumerable  green 
sponges.  The  shacks  are  often  miles  and  miles 
apart,  and  the  solitude  is  awful.  My  children 
are  four  in  number.  Bertha,  the  eldest,  who  is 
twelve  years  old,  but  small  for  her  age,  has  need 
of  .  .  ."" 

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It  was  natural  enough  that  during  the  next  few 
weeks  a  little  boy's  fancy  should  transcend  the 
limitations  of  Vandiver  Place  and  the  glories  of 
Broadway  to  roam  the  endless  mounting  stretches 
of  sand  that  produced  so  striking  a  novelty  as 
green  sponges.  In  some  dim  way  he  had  understood 
the  clergyman's  life,  as  exemplified  by  his  father, 
to  be  one  of  dignity;  now  he  began  to  perceive  that 
it  could  possess  elements  of  romance.  Later,  when 
they  filled  the  missionary  box  in  the  Gothic  rectory 
drawing-room,  he  saw  with  his  own  eyes  that  it  was 
also  a  career  of  privilege.  Privilege,  romance,  and 
dignity  were  enough  to  fire  the  ambition  of  any  little 
boy  in  whom  the  seed  of  intention  to  become  some 
one  in  the  world  was  already  sprouting. 

By  dint  of  being  an  unheeded  listener  to  letters 
and  conversations  supposed  to  be  beyond  his  sphere 
of  interest  he  was  soon  more  familiar  with  the  needs 
of  the  family  on  the  Colorado  plains  than  any  of  the 
ladies  bent  on  supplying  them.  He  knew  that  it 
was  Bertha  who  wanted  the  grammar-book,  and  that 
it  was  Georgie  who  lacked  a  warm  winter  coat,  as 
well  as  the  precise  degree  to  which  Tommy  was  hard 
on  his  boots.  He  knew  how  the  baby  boy  was 
growing,  and  the  gratitude  Mrs.  Waters  would  feel 
to  any  kind  mother  who  would  help  her  to  put  the 
child  "into  pants."  Intimate  as  he  had  grown  with 
their  separate  needs,  it  was  gratifying  to  see  them  so 
liberally  met.  Books,  boots,  clothes,  underclothes, 
bed-linen,  table-linen,  tooth-brushes,  tooth-powder, 
soap,  flannel,  candies,  towels,  ink,  groceries,  sponges, 
toys,  went  into  the  packing-case  in  turn.  Now  and 
then  his  mother  came  near  enough  to  his  chair  for  him 
to  whisper.  "Wasn't  it  kind  of  Miss  Smedley  to  give 

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Bertha  that  nice  hat,  mama!"  or  "Georgie  won't  be 
cold  now,  will  he,  mama,  with  that  nice  reefer  from 
Mrs.  Hornbiower?"  Once,  when  his  mother  stood 
beside  him  for  a  minute  or  two,  he  had  time  to  say, 
"It's  nice  to  be  a  clergyman  and  get  all  these  nice 
presents,  isn't  it,  mama?"  to  which  she  replied: 
"Yes,  dear.  It's  nice  to  be  a  clergyman  for  a  good 
many  reasons  besides  that."  He  thought  he  re 
membered  adding,  "Sha'n't  I  be  a  clergyman  when 
I'm  big,  mama,  and  get  a  nice  big  box  of  raisins  and 
ink  and  tooth-brushes,  too?"  His  mother  had  re 
plied,  "I  hope  so,  dear,"  or  something  like  that, 
before  hurrying  forward  to  take  a  fur  cap  or  a  box 
of  sweets  from  the  hands  of  some  newly  arriving 
visitor. 

From  wondering  at  the  donations  he  fell  to  think 
ing  in  a  childish  way  of  the  power  of  those  who 
could  make  such  gifts  without  uncomfortably 
straining  their  resources.  He  had  come  to  a  sense 
that  in  this  world  there  were  people  who  were  rich 
and  people  who  were  poor,  and  that  the  rich  could 
do  things  impossible  to  gentlemen  and  ladies  in  the 
position  of  his  parents.  Perhaps  he  could  not  have 
lived  in  Vandiver  Place,  even  as  far  back  as  1874, 
without  knowing  it.  The  very  children  with  whom 
he  played  forced  the  fact  home  upon  him. 

"You  can't  have  a  French  governess  like  mine," 
Freddy  Furnival  had  observed  to  him  one  day  not 
long  before.  "My  mother  says  your  mother  can't 
afford  it." 

The  remark  was  quite  irrelevant,  thrown  out  as 
they  raced  their  wheelbarrows  round  the  bit  of  grass- 
plot  that  lay  between  the  rectory  and  the  street 
under  the  south  transept  of  Amiens  Cathedral. 

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Charlie  Grace  could  only  retort,  "Well,  your  papa 
can't  give  out  the  hymns  on  Sunday  and  make  all 
the  people  get  up  and  sit  down." 

"My  papa  don't  want  to.  He's  a  doctor.  He 
makes  people  sick.  You  didn't  have  rice-pudding 
to-day.  We  did." 

Charlie  Grace,  not  having  had  rice-pudding  that 
day,  felt  at  a  disadvantage.  He  felt  at  a  disadvan 
tage  on  general  principles,  too.  A  word  had  been 
used  that  caused  him  a  vague  discomfort.  Not 
that  he  knew  its  meaning — -quite.  It  only  distressed 
him,  with  a  kind  of  atavistic  alarm.  It  was  as  if  it 
had  been  used  like  a  whip  on  all  the  generations 
preceding  him,  as  if  he  had  felt  its  scourge  in  a 
previous  life.  He  had  it  in  his  mind  all  that  day. 
He  had  it  in  his  mind  as  he  knelt  on  his  bed  that 
night  to  say  his  prayers,  his  mother  standing  beside 
him,  covering  his  folded  hands  with  one  of  hers. 

"God  bless  my  papa,  and  my  mama,  and  my 
brother  Edward,  and  my  sister  Emma,  and  her  little 
girl,  and  Mr.  Tomlinson,  and  Mr.  Legrand  and  Mrs. 
Legrand,  and  Bridget,  and  Julia,  and  Remnant,  and 
Miss  Smedley  because  she  gave  me  my  wheel 
barrow,  and  Mrs.  Hornblower  because  she  gave  me 
my  rocking-horse,  and  make  me  a  good  boy.  Amen. 
Mama,  what's  'afford'?" 

"What's  what,  dear?" 

"'Afford.'  Why  can't  people  afford  a  French 
governess  like  Freddy  Furnival?" 

The  word  was  explained  to  him.  He  had  no 
trouble  in  understanding  it.  He  felt  it  at  once  to 
be  a  term  he  had  been  in  need  of.  It  solved  myster 
ies.  It  put  people  and  things  into  perspective.  It 
accounted  for  the  strength  of  the  strong  and  the 

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weakness  of  the  weak.  Incidentally,  it  ranged 
Freddy  Furnival  with  the  former  and  himself  and 
his  father  and  mother  with  the  latter,  and  left  a 
sense  of  dissatisfaction.  He  felt  somewhat  as  a 
negro  child  must  feel  when  the  knowledge  first  comes 
to  him  that  he  has  been  born  black. 

So  from  the  bewildering  excitement  of  largess  his 
mind  traveled  to  those  who  were  able  to  "afford" 
it.  It  did  so  less  in  envy  than  in  emulation.  There 
was  little  envy  in  his  nature.  What  was  really 
instinctive  was  his  desire  to  do  what  others  did;  as 
much  as  they  did,  if  not  more.  He  was  uneasy  to 
see  that  others  could  contribute  to  the  wants  of  the 
Waters  family  while  he  was  considered  negligible, 
impotent.  Rebellion  against  this  paralysis  of  good 
intention  grew  acute  when  Mrs.  Furnival  opened  a 
cardboard  box  and  said: 

"See.  My  little  Freddy  has  sent  this.  It  will  be 
lovely  for  the  little  boy." 

Charlie  Grace  did  not  have  to  look  a  second  time 
to  know  that  the  box  contained  a  train  that  would 
go  round  in  a  circle  when  you  touched  a  spring  con 
cealed  in  the  engine.  He  knew,  too,  that  the  ma 
chinery  was  out  of  gear  from  over-usage,  and  that 
several  of  the  tin  wheels  were  off.  He  himself  had 
inflicted  some  damage  on  the  string  of  cars  by  kicking 
them  over,  in  a  moment  of  rage  against  Freddy, 
when  they  were  in  full  career.  These  injuries  di 
minished  but  slightly  the  value  of  the  thing  as  a 
possession,  since  a  train  may  be  more  a  train  than 
ever  after  it  has  been  in  collision  or  has  met  with 
accident.  The  point  that  hurt  was  that  Freddy 
Furnival  could  send  a  present  to  the  Waters  child 
while  his  own  aid  had  never  been  invited.  He  felt 
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himself  overlooked,  left  out  of  the  movement. 
Even  the  lack  of  personal  recognition  was  secondary 
to  the  slight  upon  his  powers. 

In  spite  of  his  fear  of  obtruding  himself  too  no 
ticeably  into  the  group  of  ladies  circling  about  the 
packing-case  like  doves  round  a  fountain,  he  glided 
from  his  perch  and  approached  his  mother  tim 
idly. 

"Mama,"  he  whispered,  slipping  his  hand  into 
hers,  "can't  I  put  something  into  the  box,  too?" 

His  mother  smiled.  "My  poor  darling,  I  don't 
think  you've  anything  left.  All  your  toys  went  to 
the  last  Christmas  tree  at  the  Mission  Church,  and 
all  your  old  picture-books."  Still  smiling,  she  lifted 
her  sweet,  shy  eyes  on  the  ladies  who  had  momentarily 
paused  in  their  work.  "We  have  to  make  so  many 
clean  sweeps  that  poor  Charlie  can  never  keep  any 
thing  for  himself." 

"I've  got  my  wheelbarrow,"  he  corrected,  in  a  loud 
whisper. 

"Oh,  but  that's  too  big,  dear.  Besides,  Miss 
Smedley  gave  it  to  you,  and  she  wouldn't  like  you 
to  give  it  away." 

"Well,  my  rocking-horse,  then." 

"Mrs.  Hornblower  gave  you  that.  She  wouldn't 
like  it,  either." 

"No;  she  wouldn't  like  it,  either,"  Mrs.  Horn- 
blower  herself  echoed  in  a  deep  voice.  He  would 
have  made  an  attempt  to  plead  with  her  had  she  not 
added:  "Come  along,  ladies.  We  must  finish  before 
lunch.  Little  boys  mustn't  bother,"  she  added, 
crushingly. 

That  night  he  left  Mrs.  Hornblower  permanently 
out  of  his  petitions. 

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In  the  mean  time  his  energies  were  astir.  That 
dogged  element  in  his  nature  which  opposition  was 
always  to  arouse  began  to  declare  itself.  He  would 
put  something  into  the  missionary  box,  no  matter 
what,  no  matter  how.  He  stole  back  to  his  high 
seat  in  the  corner. 

His  plans  had  ripened  before  the  last  parcel  was 
secured  in  its  resting-place,  and  the  whole  achieve 
ment  neatly  covered  with  layers  of  old  papers.  It 
was  to  be  Remnant's  task  to  nail  the  cover  on,  and 
the  rector's  to  write  the  address.  The  ladies  could 
now  troop  off  to  the  dining-room  to  refresh  them 
selves. 

Charlie  Grace  knew  what  he  meant  to  do.  Having 
first  looked  into  his  own  small  room  to  assure  him 
self  that  there  was  nothing  left  in  his  possession  that 
could  be  given  away,  he  threaded  the  passages  lead 
ing  from  the  rectory  to  the  church.  In  the  church, 
as  he  expected,  he  found  Remnant.  Remnant  was 
preparing  for  a  funeral.  Having  set  up  the  trestles 
on  which  the  coffin  was  to  rest,  he  was  leisurely  dust 
ing  them. 

"Burying  Mrs.  Badger,"  he  explained,  as  the  boy 
drew  near.  "That  '11  be  one  boss  the  less  for  me. 
There's  women  as  don't  see  anything  in  religion  but 
just  to  boss  the  sexton.  'Censorious '  is  what  I  call 
'em.  This  here  Mrs.  Badger  'u'd  scent  a  speck  o' 
dust  in  her  pew  before  she'd  turned  the  corner  of 
Vandiver  Place.  There's  a  lot  of  hollerness  to  re 
ligion,  sonny.  If  you  was  a  sexton  you'd  know. 
Some  people  think  it's  a  soft  snap,  being  a  sexton — 
just  christening  people  and  marrying  'em  and  bury 
ing  'em,  like;  but,  Lord!  if  they  had  this  job.  If 
some  old  lady's  feet  is  cold  it's  my  fault;  and  if 

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there's  a  draught  down  her  neck  it's  my  fault;  and 
if  the  church  is  stuffy  it's  my  fault;  and  if  the 
windows  is  open  it's  my  fault;  and  if  they're  shut  it's 
my  fault.  I'll  bet  you  if  this  here  old  Mrs.  Badger 
could  speak  she'd  say  it  was  my  fault  as  she's  gone 
to  work  and  died." 

Remnant  waved  the  duster  oratorically.  He  was 
a  little,  dark  man,  not  over  thirty-five,  covered  up 
just  now  in  a  long  black  dust-cloak,  like  a  gaberdine, 
which  would  presently  be  discarded  for  a  beadle's 
gown,  in  honor  of  Mrs.  Badger.  He  was  fond  of 
saying  he  had  been  "born  a  sexton,"  his  father  in  his 
lifetime  having  had  the  care  of  St.  David's,  trans 
mitting  it  to  his  son. 

"Want  to  put  something  into  that  missionary 
box,  do  you,  sonny?  Now  I  don't  hold  with  them 
missionary  boxes,  nohow.  I  say,  'Give  a  man  a 
decent  salary,  and  let  him  live  on  it.'  I  say,  'Don't 
ask  a  man  to  get  along  on  starvation  wages,  just  so 
as  you  can  keep  him  where  he'll  have  to  come  and 
lick  your  hand  in  the  hopes  of  getting  a  present. 
That's  the  way  sextons  is  treated  all  over  the  world. 
They're  kept  down.  The  clergy  is  kept  down,  too, 
but  not  so  much  as  sextons.  There  ain't  an  old  lady 
as  comes  to  St.  David's  that  don't  think  she's  got  me 
and  your  pa  in  her  pocket — and  me  more  than  your 
pa.  And  that's  what  they  call  religion." 

The  little  boy  saw  an  opening.  It  was  the  ladies 
of  Remnant's  dislike  who  stood  in  the  way  of  his 
making  a  contribution  to  the  missionary  box. 
Would  it  not  be  a  legitimate  bit  of  retaliation  if  by 
putting  their  heads  together  they  could  outwit 
them?  With  some  glee  Remnant  seized  the  idea 
before  it  was  fully  expressed, 

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"Say,"  he  whispered.  "Up  in  the  loft  above  the 
Sunday-school  room  there's  an  old  chest  full  of  stuff. 
The  Girls'  Friendlies  uses  the  things  when  they  get 
up  their  plays.  Come  along  and  we'll  see  what 
there  is." 

"We  haven't  much  time,"  the  little  boy  warned 
him.  "Unless  I  get  it  into  the  box  while  they're  at 
lunch  I  can't  do  it  at  all." 

Remnant  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  already  late 
for  their  purpose.  "Come  along,"  he  said  again; 
and  the  preparations  for  burying  Mrs.  Badger  were 
suspended. 

The  loft  was  distant  and  up  a  dark  stairway. 
Time  was  lost  while  Remnant  looked  for  a  candle  to 
light  them  along.  Thus  there  was  no  leisure  for 
selection  when  at  last  they  stood  by  the  open  chest. 

"Just  dive  in  your  hand,  sonny,"  Remnant 
counseled,  "as  if  it  was  a  bran-pie,  like,  and  take  the 
first  thing  you  get  hold  of." 

The  element  of  chance  appealing  to  Charlie  Grace's 
sporting  instincts,  he  did  as  directed.  Out  of  the 
dusty  hodge-podge  in  the  chest  he  drew  forth  a  small, 
soft  package,  flat  and  shapeless,  wrapped  in  silver 
paper.  It  was  an  occasion  on  which  one  thing  was 
as  good  as  another.  The  conspirators  stole  back  to 
the  schoolroom  below  "Now,  let's  see,"  Remnant 
said,  eagerly. 

On  examining  the  prize  and  finding  nothing  but  a 
wig — a  man's  iron-gray  wig — clumsily  made  and 
shaggy,  but  still  a  wig — Remnant  made  no  secret  of 
his  disgust. 

"That  won't  do,"  he  said,  contemptuously.  "It's 
one  of  them  Girls'  Friendly  things.  It's  for  their 
plays.  It  '11  be  no  use  at  all  in  a  missionary  box." 

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But  Charlie  Grace  was  of  a  different  opinion. 
Not  only  would  this  donation  be  on  original  lines, 
differing  from  the  sponges  and  flannel  and  stationery 
of  other  contributors,  but  he  could  see  already  the 
uses  to  which  Bertha  and  Georgie  and  Tommy  would 
put  it.  To  any  company  of  children  in  the  world 
a  wig  must  be  a  possession,  a  source  of  inspiration,  a 
point  of  departure.  It  could  be  turned  to  as  many 
uses  as  a  mask.  Moreover,  masks  were  common, 
toys  were  common,  games  and  picture-books  were 
common;  but  a  wig  was  rare.  With  a  wig  to  put 
on  his  head  and  stir  his  fancy  there  was  no  limit 
to  the  things  he,  Charlie  Grace,  could  be.  He  could 
be  a  clergyman  giving  out  hymns  and  pounding  a 
pulpit;  he  could  be  General  Grant  leading  the  army 
to  war;  he  could  be  a  policeman,  or  a  postman,  or  a 
garbage-man.  Out  on  the  Colorado  plains  a  wig 
must  be  even  more  a  boon  than  in  Vandiver  Place, 
so  to  the  Colorado  plains  it  should  go. 

He  did  not  reason  the  subject  out  in  words,  or 
put  it  before  Remnant  otherwise  than  with  the 
laconic  assertion,  "They'll  like  it,  Remnant;  I 
know  they  will,"  but  he  had  his  way.  Within  five 
minutes  the  wig  was  beneath  the  lowest  of  the 
layers  of  old  newspapers  with  which  the  contents 
of  the  packing-case  were  protected;  and  Remnant, 
alive  to  the  urgency  of  the  moment,  and  chuckling 
over  the  neat  way  in  which  his  "bosses"  had  been 
outflanked,  was  nailing  up  the  box. 


CHAPTER  II 

FOR  a  few  weeks  there  was  no  sequel  to  the  fore 
going  incident  except  for  certain  states  of  mind 
excited  in  Charlie  Grace. 

He  discovered,  in  the  first  place,  that  by  taking 
the  initiative  and  keeping  his  counsel  it  was  possible 
to  get  his  own  way  even  in  the  teeth  of  authority. 
His  satisfaction  with  this  result  was  all  the  greater 
since  it  ranked  him  with  that  strong  class  represented 
by  Freddy  Furnival.  It  took  him  out  of  the  army 
of  the  relatively  powerless,  into  which,  he  felt,  his 
father  and  mother  had  been  somehow  thrust.  He 
dwelt  much  on  this  fact  concerning  them.  He  did 
it  a  little  wistfully,  with  some  sense  of  being  dis 
illusioned.  He  had  taken  them  hitherto  to  be 
immense,  majestic  creatures  to  whom  nothing  was 
impossible.  He  began  to  see  them  now  as  oddly 
hampered  in  ways  in  which  he  had  thought  them 
free.  There  were  things  they  couldn't  command, 
things  they  couldn't  "afford."  The  knowledge  gave 
him  a  twinge  of  humiliation  that  amounted  to  a  new 
sensation.  He  didn't  like  it. 

Social  phenomena  he  had  taken  for  granted  began 
to  assume  significance. 

"Mama,"  he  said,  one  evening,  when  his  mother 
was  putting  him  to  bed,  "whenever  Fanny  Horn- 
blower  comes  to  play  with  me  she  comes  in  a  carriage 
with  two  black  horses." 

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"Yes,  dear?" 

"Well,  why  don't  I  have  a  carriage  and  two  black 
horses  when  I  go  to  play  with  her?  I  go  on  the  horse- 
car,  with  colored  people  in  it." 

He  knew  perfectly  well  by  this  time  what  the  answer 
would  be.  He  had  asked  the  question  partly  for  cor- 
roboration,  partly  in  the  hope  of  further  enlighten 
ment. 

"  Fanny  Hornblower  has  a  carriage,  dear,  because  her 
papa  is  rich." 

This  was  the  reply  he  had  expected.  It  would  do 
well  enough  as  a  starting-point.  "Well,  why  isn't  my 
papa  rich?" 

"Because,  darling,  when  any  one  becomes  a  clergy 
man  he  makes  up  his  mind  to  be  poor." 

"  But  why  doesn't  he  make  up  his  mind  to  be  rich  ?" 

Here,  however,  his  mother  failed  him.  "You 
wouldn't  understand  that  now,  dear.  I  must  tell  you 
some  other  time,  when  you're  older." 

He  sighed  the  sigh  of  resignation.  He  had  ceased  to 
combat  the  obsession  of  grown-up  people  that  little 
boys  couldn't  understand  what  was  properly  explained 
to  them.  The  subject  even  passed  from  his  mind  for 
several  days. 

He  was  a  queer  lad,  with  spells  of  being  active  and 
mischievous,  and  other  spells  in  which  he  fell  into  a 
state  of  dreamy  meditation.  His  features  changed 
readily  with  the  feeling  of  the  moment.  In  restless 
days  his  look  was  eager,  aggressive,  pugnacious.  His 
small,  deep-set  eyes,  over  which  the  eyebrows  were 
irregular,  would  dance  then,  and  become  of  a  steely 
blue,  while  his  shock  of  wavy  yellow  hair,  too  fair  to  be 
red,  would  be  either  bristling  or  tousled.  What  char 
acterized  him  even  more  was  the  lifting  of  his  chin — 

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the  long,  rather  pointed  chin  inherited  from  his  mother. 
In  her  case  the  oval  of  the  face  would  have  been  per 
fect  had  it  not  been  marred  by  this  slight  elongation 
at  the  tip.  The  boy  had  the  same  oval,  with  the  same 
irregularity,  but  he  had  a  habit  of  thrusting  the  errant 
feature  forward,  of  tilting  it  upward,  in  a  manner  that 
meant  obstinacy  or  will  -  power,  according  to  one's 
point  of  view.  When  he  was  naughty  there  was  no 
question  but  that  the  lifted  chin  was  stubborn;  when 
he  was  simply  trying  to  do  his  best  it  was  taken  to 
denote  concentration  of  mind. 

Concentration  of  mind  was  noticeable  chiefly  on  the 
days  when  he  was  "gbod."  It  was  real  concentra 
tion,  too.  He  would  sit  for  long  periods— five  minutes, 
ten  minutes,  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  perhaps — with  no 
movement  to  express  his  feelings  but  the  swinging  of 
his  scarlet  legs.  His  mother  complained  that  he  wore 
out  his  boots  on  the  inner  sides  by  scuffing  them  to 
gether  in  these  fits  of  meditation.  It  was  curious  to 
see  then  how  the  tilting  of  his  chin  changed  in  expres 
sion.  It  became  contemplative,  yearning,  like  the 
chins  of  the  cherubs  in  the  "Madonna  di  San  Sisto." 
His  eyes,  too,  would  darken  to  violet,  and  his  mouth, 
which  always  drooped  at  the  corners,  would  droop 
more. 

"What  is  my  little  boy  thinking  of?"  his  mother 
sometimes  said  when  she  found  him  brooding  in  this 
way.  But  his  answer,  if  he  answered  at  all,  rarely 
gave  her  the  information  she  desired.  He  grew  shy 
of  asking  questions  bearing  too  directly  on  the  problems 
of  life.  Nevertheless,  he  responded  on  one  occasion 
with: 

"Mama,  are  we  like  Hattie  Bright?" 

He  was  kneeling  on  his  bed,  in  his  night-shirt.  He 

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was  ready  for  his  prayers,  though  he  had  no^  yet  begun 
them.  His  mother  s  back  was  turned  as  she  folded 
the  clothes  he  had  just  taken  off.  She  reflected  a 
minute,  trying  to  catch  his  drift.  She  was  obliged  in 
the  end  to  say: 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  dear." 

"Why  did  papa  say  Hattie  Bright's  mama  was  so" — 
he  stumbled  at  the  word,  blushing  a  little — "so 
sensifit  ?" 

"Sensitive,  darling.  Papa  did  say  she  was  sensitive, 
because  she  is." 

"What  is  sen-si-tive,  mama?"  He  said  the  word 
slowly  but  correctly. 

"It's  thinking  that  people  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings 
when  perhaps  they  don't." 

"Does  Hattie  Bright's  mama  think  people  mean  to 
hurt  her  feelings?" 

"Sometimes,  dear." 

"Is  that  because  she's  poor?" 

"It's  because  she  has  to  work — to  keep  a  boarding- 
house — and  she's  afraid  some  of  the  other  ladies  in  the 
church  don't  think  she's  just  as  goo— just  the  same — as 
they  are." 

"And  is  she  just  the  same  as  they  are,  mama?" 

"In  God's  sight  she  is,  dear.  You'd  better  say  your 
prayers  now,  darling,  and  go  to  sleep." 

He  knelt  erect  on  the  bed,  folding  his  hands,  which 
she  covered  with  one  of  her  own.  After  he  had  closed 
his  eyes  devoutly  he  opened  them  again. 

"Mama,  could  I  say  'bless  Hattie  Bright's  mama' 
after  I've  said  Bridget  and  Julia  and  Remnant?" 

"Certainly,  darling.  You  can  always  pray  for  any 
one." 

The  prayers  proceeded,  while  the  mother  pondered 

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over  the  initial  question.  More  than  once  of  late  she 
had  been  puzzled  in  trying  to  follow  the  workings  of  the 
child's  mind.  She  thought  it  well  to  ask,  when  he  had 
said  his  'Amen'  and  was  curling  down  into  bed: 

"What  did  you  mean  just  now,  dear,  when  you 
asked  if  we  were  like  Hattie  Bright?" 

But  shyness  had  overtaken  him  again.  "Nothing, 
mama." 

She  moved  about  the  room,  putting  it  in  order  for  the 
night.  "  Don't  you  like  to  play  with  her?"  she  persisted. 

"I  do.  Freddy  don't.  Freddy's  mama  won't  let 
him.  She  says  Hattie  Bright  isn't  good  enough. 
Freddy  told  me.  That's  what  you  were  going  to  say 
just  now,  mama-*-isn't  it? — when  you  changed  it  to 
something  else." 

His  perspicacity  alarmed  her.  She  wished  she  could 
have  consulted  his  father.  For  the  moment  she  felt  it 
her  duty  to  answer  him  to  the  best  of  her  skill. 

"That's  an  expression,  dear,  which  we  shouldn't  use. 
That's  why  I  changed  it.  When  you  hear  people  using 
it — like  Freddy,  for  instance — you  may  know  they 
don't  quite  understand — 

"Are  people  not  good  when  they're  poor,  mama? 
Are  they  bad?" 

"No,  darling.     Christ  was  poor — " 

"  But  He  could  have  been  rich  if  He'd  liked.  It  says 
in  my  Bible  Stories  He  could." 

"And  He  didn't  care  to  be.  That's  just  it.  It 
shows  how  little  it  matters  whether  people  are  rich  or 
poor." 

"It  matters  if  they're  not  good  enough.  If  Hattie 
Bright's  mama  wasn't  poor  she'd  be  good  enough  to 
play  with  Freddy.  Is  she  good  enough  to  play  with 
me,  mama?" 

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"She  does  play  with  you,  doesn't  she?  And  you 
know  she's  good." 

"She's  good  when  she  doesn't  spit  and  say  naughty 
words.  She  said  a'  awful  naughty  word  the  last 
time.  Do  you  want  to  know  what  naughty  word  she 
said,  mama?" 

"No,  dear.     It  isn't  nice  to  repeat  things — " 

"It  was  'divil,'"  he  insisted.  "Wasn't  that  a* 
awful  word,  mama?" 

There  followed  a  little  homily  on  the  sin  of  tale 
bearing — a  subject  which  the  boy  found  less  exciting 
than  the  rights  of  man,  for  in  the  midst  of  it  he  fell 
asleep. 

The  next  few  days  saw  him  criticizing  his  mother's 
words  as  inconclusive.  There  was  a  flaw  in  her 
reasoning  somewhere,  though  he  couldn't  lay  his 
finger  on  the  spot.  She  was  unwilling  to  be  definite 
as  to  the  status  of  Hattie  Bright,  while  she  dodged 
the  whole  question  of  his  position  between  Hattie 
Bright  and  Freddy  Furnival.  It  was  a  nice  point, 
that,  as  to  whether,  if  Hattie  Bright  wasn't  good 
enough  to  play  with  Freddy  Furnival,  she  was  good 
enough  to  play  with  him.  A  number  of  delicate 
considerations  were  involved  in  it.  It  would  have 
borne  discussion — -but  she  had  dodged  it.  He  had 
seen  her  dodge  it  as  plainly  as  if  she  had  dodged  in  a 
game  of  "chase."  He  pardoned  it  to  her,  however, 
as  one  of  the  unaccountable  weaknesses  of  grown 
up  people— part  of  their  curious  inability  to  be  frank. 
He  pardoned  it  to  her  the  more  readily  because  of  his 
intuitive  perception  that  she  was  not  much  clearer 
on  the  subject  than  himself.  He  had  noticed  more 
than  once  how  difficult  she  found  it  to  answer  ques 
tions  which  seemed  to  him  to  require  but  a  "Yes" 

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or  a  "No."  Little  by  little  he  began  to  get  his 
mother  into  perspective.  Little  by  little  she  ceased 
to  be  the  supreme,  impersonal  maternal  force,  part 
of  the  mystery  of  being,  part  of  the  night  of  time,  to 
take  on  the  form,  proportions,  and  character  of  a 
woman.  She  began  to  detach  herself  from  the  chaos 
of  primal  things  to  become  a  woman  among  women, 
a  woman  different  from  other  women.  When  he 
compared  her  with  Miss  Smedley,  or  Mrs.  Furnival, 
or  Mrs.  Hornblower  he  found  her  of  a  finer  essence, 
with  a  sweeter  voice,  a  lovelier  smile,  and  tenderer 
ways.  He  wondered  sometimes  if  all  children  felt 
so  of  all  mamas.  Fortunately,  this  was  a  mystery 
that  could  be  solved  by  research  into  the  senti 
ments  of  Freddy  Furnival;  and  the  method  was 
simple. 

"I've  got  a  nicer  mother  than  you,"  he  said  to 
Freddy,  one  day  when  amusements  palled  in  the 
latter's  nursery. 

"I  guess  you  haven't,"  was  Freddy's  sturdy 
answer.  "My  mother  says  your  mother  is  afraid 
to  call  her  soul  her  own." 

"I  guess  she  ain't." 

The  assertion  was  supported  by  a  rush  that  bore 
Freddy  to  the  floor.  There  followed  some  wild  min 
utes,  in  which  two  little  sailor-suited  bodies  rolled 
together,  two  little  voices  yelled,  two  little  heads  were 
pulled,  two  little  faces  punched,  and  four  little  red 
legs  kicked  frantically. 

"You  say  I've  got  a  nicer  mother  than  you," 
Charlie  Grace  demanded  as  the  condition  of  peace. 

"I  won't.     I've  got  a  nicer  mother  than  you." 

The  battle  would  have  been  prolonged  if  Freddy's 
French  governess  hadn't  rushed  into  the  room,  cry- 

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ing,  " Mon  Dieu!  Mon  Dieu!  Quest  ce  quil  y  a? 
Oh,  le  mechant!  Oh,  le  mediant!"  as  she  shook  each 
of  them  in  turn. 

The  fight  thus  being  a  drawn  one,  the  question 
was  left  unsolved.  Later  experiments  on  Fanny 
Hornblower  and  Hattie  Bright  were  no  more  suc 
cessful.  To  his  assertion,  "I've  got  a  nicer  mother 
than  you,"  Fanny  replied  by  bursting  into  tears, 
while  Hattie  was  content  to  put  out  her  tongue 
at  him,  and  say,  "Who  cares?"  In  the  latter  in 
stance,  however,  there  was  some  concession,  as 
though  Hattie  had  resigned  herself  to  what  was 
beyond  dispute. 

Nevertheless,  he  observed  his  mother  quietly,  in 
order  to  assure  himself  that  there  was  no  possible 
truth  in  the  assertion  that  she  dared  not  call  her 
soul  her  own.  He  didn't  need  to  be  told  what  the 
charge  implied.  The  figure  of  speech  explained  it 
self.  A  soul  was  something  inside  you,  like  a  sprite 
or  a  monkey,  that  would  spring  up  to  heaven  when 
you  died.  He  knew  it  must  be  a  feeble  creature 
indeed  who  would  not  lay  claim  to  so  intimate  a 
possession  as  that. 

He  didn't  find  his  mother  a  feeble  creature,  but  he 
noticed  in  her  manner  hesitations,  timidities,  mis 
givings  he  had  never  chronicled  before.  She  would 
keep  her  sweet,  shy  eyes  on  his  father,  like  a  dog 
waiting  for  the  word  of  command.  At  table  she 
scarcely  ate  anything  herself,  so  anxious  was  she 
that  her  husband  should  have  what  he  liked.  She 
came  into  the  rector's  study  with  a  frightened  air, 
and  never  stayed  longer  than  the  time  necessary 
to  express  her  errand.  Even  with  Bridget  and 
Julia  she  was  deferential,  and  when  Julia  said  one 

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day,  "That's  something,  ma'am,  I  niver  cooked  in 
anny  one's  house  before,  and  at  my  time  o'  life  I'm 
not  going  to  begin,"  his  mother  replied,  "Oh,  very 
well,  Julia,"  and  hurried  from  the  kitchen.  With 
the  ladies  of  the  parish  she  was  almost  painfully 
eager  to  please.  She  took  advice  from  Mrs.  Fur- 
nival,  and  complaints  from  Mrs.  Bright,  and  snubs 
from  Mrs.  Hornblower  as  though  any  form  of  recog 
nition  were  a  kindness.  When  affection  was  shown 
her — as,  it  must  be  admitted,  was  often  the  case — 
her  gratitude  was  touching,  and  generally  accom 
panied  by  mists  of  tears. 

These  indications  worried  Charlie  Grace.  He 
passed  many  dreamy  minutes  pondering  over  their 
significance.  He  went  so  far  at  last  as  to  bring  the 
subject  tactfully  before  Remnant. 

Remnant  was  in  the  church  "cleaning  the  bird." 
The  moment  was  favorable  therefore  to  confidence. 

"Some  o'  them  bosses,"  he  observed,  as  the  little 
boy  drew  near,  "wouldn't  think  this  here  brass  eagle 
was  shiny  enough,  not  if  it  gave  'em  sunburn  to  sit 
under  it.  It's  a  regular  idol  to  'em,  that's  what  it  is. 
If  they'd  listen  to  the  words  your  pa  reads  to  them 
off  it  they'd  have  more  consideration  for  -me." 

"My  mama  isn't  afraid  of  them." 

The  aggressive  tone  caused  Remnant  to  cock  his 
eye  over  the  beak  of  the  lectern  while  he  said,  dryly: 

"Ain't  she,  though?" 

"No,  she  ain't." 

"Then  she's  not  the  woman  I  took  her  for." 

The  boy  felt  his  heart  sink,  though  he  stood  his 
ground.  "What  woman  did  you  take  her  for, 
Remnant?"  he  asked,  subtly. 

Remnant  muttered  his  reply  under  his  breath, 

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while  he  thrust  the  chamois  leather  between  the 
eagle's  claws.  "I  took  her  for  better  than  some  o' 
them  as  thought  she  wasn't  good  enough  to  marry 
your  pa — that's  who  I  took  her  for.  But  it's  some 
thing  you  can't  understand,  sonny.  You're  too 
young.  There's  a  lot  of  hollerness  to  religion. 
You've  got  to  be  a  sexton  to  know  how  some  of 
these  old  ar-ir-tocrats  '11  feel  when  a  country  lawyer's 
daughter  is  brought  in  all  of  a  sudden  to  rule  over 
them,  like.  I  never  see  nothing  like  it — the  day  the 
news  come.  And  him  a  widower  for  seven  years! — 
just  up  at  Horsehair  Hill  for  a  vacation.  To  be 
bowled  over  by  a  pretty  face  and  a  slim  figure  as  if 
he  was  a  boy,  when  he  might  ha'  had  Miss  Smedley 
and  all  her  money.  'Twas  against  nature,  in  a  way 
of  speaking.  I  heard  it  said  that  Miss  Smedley  'u'd 
hardly  come  out  o'  one  faint  before  she'd  go  off  into 
another — and  there  was  others  just  as  bad.  I  tell 
you  it  was  nuts  for  me,  sonny — though  it's  not  to  be 
wondered  at  that  your  poor  ma  don't  hardly  dare 
to  call  her  soul  her  own." 

So  that  was  it.  The  conditions  were  incidental 
to  his  father's  second  marriage.  It  was  knowledge 
still  recent  to  him  that  his  father  had  married  two 
wives.  The  information  when  it  came  had  cleared 
up  certain  difficulties  that  had  vexed  him  ever  since 
his  mind  had  begun  to  grapple  with  the  subject  of 
human  relationships.  He  had  never  understood  why 
it  was  that  when  Freddy  Furnival  had  lost  a  sister 
two  years  younger  than  himself,  and  Fanny  Horn- 
blower  still  possessed  a  brother  two  years  older,  his 
brother,  Edward,  should  be  a  man  grown  and  his 
sister,  Emma,  a  married  woman.  From  such  frag 
ments  of  their  letters  as  he  could  comprehend  he 

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knew  them  to  be  in  the  course  of  constructing  what 
seemed  like  new  worlds — Edward  at  Seattle,  and 
Emma,  with  her  husband,  Mr.  Tomlinson,  in  Minne- 
saba.  He  had  never  so  much  as  seen  brother  Edward, 
or  sister  Emma,  or  brother-in-law  Mr.  Tomlinson,  nor 
did  their  correspondence  betray  inordinate  affection 
toward  his  mother  or  himself.  Upon  these  curious 
conditions,  so  different  from  the  phenomena  of  such 
other  domestic  circles  as  had  come  under  his  obser 
vation,  the  knowledge  that  his  father  had  had  a  wife 
and  family  previous  to  those  who  now  occupied  the 
rectory  had  produced  much  the  same  effect  as  a 
candle  in  a  big,  dark  room — yielding  light  enough 
to  see  by,  but  leaving  vast  spaces  unillumined. 

And  now  Remnant  had  lit  another  candle.  There 
was  more  light — but  light  that  put  all  the  familiar 
things  out  of  proportion  and  cast  grotesque,  enor 
mous  shadows  up  and  down  the  walls.  He  had  a 
distinct  sense  of  entering  on  a  world  of  things  too 
large  for  him.  Of  Remnant's  words  he  seized  the 
gist  but  vaguely.  He  might  have  missed  even  that 
had  it  not  been  for  Remnant's  repetition  of  phrases 
that  had  already  been  disturbing.  There  was,  then, 
some  resemblance  between  Hattie  Bright  and  them 
selves.  His  mother  had  reason  for  being  timid  in 
her  surroundings.  "Your  poor  ma,"  Remnant  had 
called  her,  with  a  compassion  Charlie  Grace  resented. 
Nevertheless  he  found  himself  using  the  epithet 
himself:  "Your  poor  ma."  It  came  to  him  men 
tally,  as  the  only  sufficient  expression  for  his  feelings, 
when,  one  day  at  lunch,  he  saw  her  pleading  with 
his  father  to  eat  the  portion  of  tapioca-pudding  he 
had  pushed  away  contemptuously. 

"Do  taste  it,  William.  I  thought  it  was  what  you 
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liked.  You  said  so.  You  said  so  the  day  you  said 
you  didn't  like  apple-sago.  Well,  then,  let  me  get 
you  some  cheese.  We've  some  very  good  cheese  in 
the  house.  I  think  it's  French.  You  like  French 
cheese,  William,  don't' you?  Oh,  William!" 

The  protest  came  when,  with  a  curt  "Nothing, 
thank  you,"  he  rose  majestically  and  marched  from 
the  dining-room.  He  was  a  big  man,  who  carried 
himself  like  a  pouter  -  pigeon.  The  impression  he 
made  was  imposing  at  all  times  and  crushing  when 
he  was  annoyed. 

To  the  boy  the  incident  was  trivial.  It  was  one 
of  those  to  be  dismissed  philosophically  with  the 
explanation,  "Papa's  cross."  But  he  could  see  from 
his  mother's  distressed  face  that  it  had  inner  mean 
ings  for  her,  that  she  took  it  as  another  sign  of  her 
insufficiency.  "Your  poor  ma." 

He  could  do  nothing  but  slip  his  hand  into  hers, 
saying,  "I  like  you,  mama." 

"Do  you,  darling?"  came  tremulously,  as  she 
stooped  to  brush  her  cheek  against  his  yellow  head. 
"Well,  mama  loves  her  little  boy." 

There  was  a  repetition  of  the  same  emotion  when, 
some  days  later,  Mrs.  Hornblower  came  to  call.  It 
being  Bridget's  afternoon  out,  he  was  sent  into 
the  drawing  -  room  to  offer  the  great  lady  cake 
and  wine,  which  he  carried  carefully  on  a  silver 
tray.  As  he  approached  her  knee  she  waved  him 
aside,  like  a  sovereign  satisfied  with  a  symbolis 
tic  tribute,  while  he  heard  her  say,  in  her  deep 
voice : 

"You've  doubtless  had  news  of  that  missionary 
box?" 

His  mother  shook  her  head. 

26 


CHARLIE     WAS     CALLED     ON     TO     GO     THROUGH     THE     SAME 
CEREMONY     FOR     MRS.     LEGRAND 


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"Then  you've  written?" 

She  confessed  that  she  hadn't.  "But  I'll  ask 
Dr.  Grace  to  write  if  you  think  I  ought." 

"You  won't  think  me  carping,  but  I  should  write 
myself.  I  think  I  should  write  myself.  And  you'll 
pardon  me  if  I  say  I  should  do  it  at  once.  You'll 
find  that  we  ladies  in  New  York  take  much  of  the 
burden  from  our  husbands'  shoulders.  It  leaves 
them  more  free  to  concentrate  on  their  own  affairs. 
You  can  always  tell  when  a  lady  has  been  used  to 
things  by  her  efficiency." 

"I'll  write  at  once,  Mrs.  Hornblower.  Indeed  I 
will.  I'll  write  to-night." 

"Pray  do,"  he  heard  Mrs.  Hornblower  say  as, 
carefully  balancing  himself,  he  carried  his  tray  from 
the  room  again.  "You'll  oblige  me." 

"Your  poor  ma"  came  unbidden  to  his  mind;  and 
it  came  again  when,  not  a  half-hour  later,  he  was 
called  on  to  go  through  the  same  ceremony  of  the 
cake  and  wine  for  Mrs.  Legrand.  He  did  it  the 
more  willingly  on  this  occasion,  since  he  liked  Mrs. 
Legrand  and  thought  her  the  most  beautiful  creature 
in  the  world,  his  mama  excepted. 

"You  dear  little  boy,"  she  laughed,  graciously,  as 
he  stood  before  her  with  his  tray.  "No,  thank  you. 
Well,  yes;  I  will.  It's  so  quaint  to  be  taking  cake  and 
wine  in  the  afternoon,  don't  you  know  it  is?  You 
can  hardly  fancy  how  quaint  it  seems  to  me,  now  that 
every  one  has  five-o'clock  tea.  I  think  that's  such  a 
nice  custom,  don't  you,  Mrs.  Grace?  Comes  from 
England,  you  know.  Lots  of  people  are  adopting  it 
— the  Prouds  and  the  Louds  and  all  the  best  houses. 
I  wish  you'd  set  it  up,  too,  Mrs.  Grace.  Won't  you? 
Please  do.  I'm  dying  to — only  I'm  afraid  it  would 

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look  so  funny  for  the  assistant's  wife  to  establish  it 
before  the  rector's." 

Her  light  laugh  kept  Charlie  Grace  from  listening 
to  his  mother's  reply.  Indeed,  he  could  not  have 
listened  in  any  case,  for  in  the  contemplation  of 
young  Mrs.  Legrand  his  faculties  were  taxed  to  the 
utmost.  Politeness  obliging  him  to  stand  at  a  dis 
tance  till  she  had  finished  toying  with  her  wine 
glass,  his  position  for  surveying  her  was  advanta 
geous.  There  was  never  anything,  he  was  sure,  so 
delicate  as  her  features,  so  graceful  as  her  hands. 
Her  chignon  seemed  of  spun-sugar,  while  her  tiny 
hat,  tilted  down  toward  her  forehead,  was  like  some 
pale-blue  flower.  Pale  blue  were  the  serrated  rows 
of  little  flounces  that  covered  her  dress  in  front, 
and  pale  blue  the  billowy  effects  artfully  massed 
behind.  She  was  sitting  now,  but  the  boy  looked 
forward  to  seeing  her  walk — she  would  do  it  with  so 
gracefully  balanced  a  Grecian  bend. 

"You  can  hardly  fancy  how  funny  it  is  to  be 
a  clergyman's  wife,"  Mrs.  Legrand  laughed  on.  "I 
haven't  got  used  to  it,  though  I've  been  married 
nearly  two  months.  It's  quite  different  from  any 
thing  I  ever  expected,  don't  you  know  it  is?  Papa 
and  mama  would  never  have  let  me  do  it  if  Rufus 
hadn't  been — well,  you  know  what  the  Legrands  are. 
I  think  it's  foolish  all  this  caring  so  much  about 
family,  don't  you?" 

Mrs.  Grace  thought  it  natural  that  those  who  came 
of  old  families  should  be  proud  of  the  fact. 

"Well,  that's  what  papa  says.  He's  got  books 
and  books  about  our  pedigree — patroons  and  those 
things,  you  know — and  Rufus  is  descended  from  the 
famous  Lady  Esther  Legrand.  You  read  about  her 

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in  history — how  she  came  over  from  the  English 
side  and  nursed  the  Revolutionary  soldiers.  But 
I  do  think  it's  foolish  laying  so  much  stress  upon  it, 
don't  you? — especially  when  you  marry  into  the 
Church.  Not  that  I  think  I  have  married  into  the 
Church.  I've  married  Rufus.  I  haven't  married 
a  clergyman,  but  a  man." 

Mrs.  Legrand  had  a  way  of  holding  her  head  to  one 
side,  with  a  challenging  smile,  as  though  to  say, 
"Now,  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  Her  words  on 
this  occasion  had,  however,  the  lack  of  conviction 
which  comes  from  saying  the  same  thing  too  often. 
In  fact,  Mrs.  Grace,  having  heard  them  before,  could 
let  Mrs.  Legrand  run  on. 

"So  many  people  think  that  because  you've  mar 
ried  a  clergyman  you  become  a  kind  of  curate,  don't 
you  know  they  do  ?  But  I  don't  agree  with  that  at  all. 
Mrs.  Hornblower  doesn't  go  and  help  her  husband  at 
the  bank.  I  consider  a  woman's  duty  is  in  her  home. 
I  consider  that  a  model  home  is  just  as  much  an 
example  to  a  parish  as  anything  else.  I  tell  Rufus 
I  can't  teach  a  Sunday-school  or  go  and  read  to  old 
women,  but  I  can  give  him  a  model  home.  It  would  be 
very  funny  if  I  couldn't — don't  you  think  it  would  ? — 
after  the  homes  I'm  used  to.  My  aunt  keeps  thir 
teen  servants,  and  I  visit  a  great  deal  there.  And 
in  a  congregation  like  St.  David's  I  should  think  it 
must  make  a  difference  to  have  people  at  the  head  of 
it  who  are — who  are — well,  you  know  what  I  mean." 

Fortunately,  Mrs.  Hornblower  had  supplied  the 
right  word.  "Who  are  used  to  things,"  Mrs.  Grace 
was  able  to  fill  in. 

"That's  just  it.  You  understand  so  well,  don't 
you  know  you  do?  So  many  of  the  clergy  and  their 

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wives  nowadays — well,  they're  not  used  to  things. 
That's  all  you  can  say  about  them.  They  come 
from  the  queerest  sort  of  families — " 

"Dr.  Grace's  father  was  a  carpenter." 

Mrs.  Legrand  sprang  up,  with  a  ruffle  of  her  tiny 
flounces.  "Oh,  well,  Dr.  Grace!  He's  different. 
He's  so  wonderful.  And  you're  so  wonderful,  too, 
Mrs.  Grace,  don't  you  know  you  are?  There  are 
some  people  who  don't  have  to  have  the  things  other 
people  are  dependent  on.  They're  enough  in  them 
selves.  I'm  very  democratic  that  way.  I  think 
there's  a  great  deal  too  much  made  of  family,  espe 
cially  in  New  York.  And  Dr.  Grace  will  be  a  bishop 
some  day,  besides.  Oh,  I  hope  he'll  be  a  bishop. 
Do  make  him.  Rufus  says  he  refused  the  bishopric 
of  Southern  Arizona,  or  Southern  something,  when  it 
was  offered  him,  but  I  hope  he  won't  do  it  again.  I'm 
going  to  work  on  old  Mr.  Legrand — Rufus's  uncle, 
you  know — he's  something  high  up  in  the  General 
Convention,  or  whatever  it  is — so  that  they'll  elect 
Dr.  Grace  to  the  very  first  nice  thing — really  nice 
thing,  you  know — not  like  Southern  Arizona — that 
turns  up.  Oh,  don't  thank  me.  It's  quite  selfish 
on  my  part  because,  you  see,  if  Dr.  Grace  was  made  a 
bishop,  why,  then  Rufus —  Oh,  well,  we  won't  talk 
about  it  yet." 

Mrs.  Legrand  set  her  half-emptied  wineglass  on 
the  silver  tray  and  dusted  the  crumbs  of  cake 
from  the  tips  of  the  fingers  of  her  pale-blue  kid 
gloves. 

"Oh,  you  dear  little  boy!"  she  cried,  patting  the 
youngster  on  the  head.  "Isn't  he  cunning!"  she 
continued,  turning  to  the  mother.  "Perhaps  he'll 
be  a  clergyman,  too,  some  day." 

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Mrs.  Grace  smiled.    "I  hope  so." 

It  was  such  a  fascinating  prospect  that,  in  spite 
of  his  shyness  before  the  visitor,  the  boy  couldn't 
help  whispering,  "Shall  I,  mama?" 

"I  hope  so,  dear,"  was  the  answer  again,  in  a  tone 
which,  as  long  as  he  lived,  remained  a  memory  in  his 
mental  hearing. 

He  carried  his  tray  to  the  dining-room  sideboard, 
and  when  he  returned  the  caller  was  gone.  His 
mother  had  reseated  herself  aimlessly.  She  rested 
her  arm  on  a  cold  marble-topped  table  while  she 
looked  vaguely  out  through  one  of  the  Gothic  win 
dows  to  a  spot  of  sunlight  lying  warm  on  the  stunted 
brownstone  transept  of  Amiens  Cathedral.  After 
the  youth  and  beauty  of  the  visitor  she  struck 
him  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  as  faded  and  dejected. 
In  her  plain  gray  dress,  which  complied  with  the 
fashion  of  the  day  only  to  the  extent  of  two  meager 
rows  of  frills,  she  looked  old,  too,  though  she  was 
just  over  thirty.  She  hadn't  seen  him  return,  so 
that  he  could  watch  her  from  the  doorway.  He 
felt  once  more  that  fear  concerning  her  which  had 
haunted  him  now  for  a  week  or  two.  It  became 
alarm.  It  became  panic.  He  wanted  assurance, 
comfort.  He  felt  his  heart  swelling  to  an  irresistible 
need  of  speech. 

"Mama!"  he  cried,  still  from  the  doorway. 
"Mama!  You're  not  afraid  to  call  your  soul  your 
own,  are  you  ?" 

She  turned  upon  him  fiercely.  She  was  hag 
gard.  Her  open  hand  struck  the  table.  She 
had  never  looked  at  him  so  before.  "Who  said 
that?" 

He  burst  into  loud  tears.    He  was  too  terrified  to 


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confess.  "No  one,"  he  blurted  out,  digging  his  fists 
into  his  eyes.  "No  one  didn't  say  it  at  all." 

The  sudden  storm  passed  from  her  face.  Look 
and  voice  grew  gentler.  "That  isn't  true,  dear. 
Some  one  must  have  said  it.  Come  here  and  tell 
me." 

Still  weeping — for  what,  he  scarcely  knew — he 
dragged  himself  to  her  knee.  The  storm  was  all 
over  by  this  time,  as  she  said  with  her  usual 
tenderness:  "Where's  your  handkerchief,  darling? 
Blow  your  nose.  No;  mama  isn't  afraid  to — to  call 
her  soul  her  own.  She's  only  afraid  of  not  being 
equal  to — " 

He  dried  his  tears.  His  sobs  were  subsiding. 
"It's  the  bosses,  isn't  it,  mama?" 

She  looked  puzzled.  "The  bosses?  I  don't  know 
what  you  mean,  darling?" 

But  he  could  only  wipe  his  face  on  her  skirt,  too 
shy  to  explain. 


CHAPTER  III 

AT  this  time,  too,  Charlie  Grace  began  to  see  his 
father  as  a  man.  Up  to  the  present  the  latter 
had  been  as  the  first  of  the  friendly  protective  ele 
ments  that  made  up  Vandiver  Place — as  the  living, 
speaking  energy  of  that  happily  constituted  whole 
in  which  Amiens  Cathedral,  the  rectory,  the  bit  of 
greensward,  the  brownstone  fronts,  and  the  row 
of  gray,  pillared  houses  were  all  component  parts. 
Dr.  William  Grace  unified  them  and  voiced  them; 
but,  like  the  rest  of  Vandiver  Place,  he  had  remained 
impersonal,  something  to  be  accepted,  submitted  to, 
loved,  even,  but  too  vast  and  remote  to  be  within  the 
scope  of  an  inquiring  mind. 

And  now  it  was  as  if  the  dignified,  portly  man  were 
advancing  from  the  bas-relief  of  the  background 
and  showing  himself  all  round.  It  was  perhaps  the 
boy's  first  registered  observation  concerning  him, 
that  he  was  dignified  and  portly.  He  had  taken 
him  so  much  for  granted  hitherto  as  never  to 
have  noticed  that  he  was  slightly  concave  in  the 
back,  but  convex  in  the  frontal  outline.  He  carried 
himself  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  a  great  deal 
that  is  honorable  to  push  ahead,  and  who  pushes  it 
ahead  with  justifiable  pride.  He  could  scarcely  enter 
a  room  without  seeming  to  say,  "Here  comes  the 
rector  of  St.  David's."  If  he  never  used  the  words, 
he  inspired  them,  since  in  those  days  the  rector  of 

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St.  David's  could  not  help  being  a  notable  figure  in 
New  York.  He  was  still  more  notable  in  the  person 
of  a  gifted  man  in  the  prime  of  his  maturity,  who  to 
the  authority  of  learning  added  the  charm  of  a  hand 
some  presence  and  a  mellifluous  voice.  The  con 
gregation  at  St.  David's  wouldn't  have  liked  it  if  their 
rector  had  not  held  his  head  a  little  above  other 
men.  It  was  commonly  said  that  he  had  the  grand 
manner;  and  St.  David's  as  it  used  to  be  was  a  church 
to  which  the  grand  manner  came  as  natural  as  its 
excellent  quartette  choir. 

Charlie  Grace  had  never  been  afraid  of  his  papa; 
he  had  never,  in  fact,  thought  much  about  him. 
In  as  far  as  he  was  obliged  actively  to  consider  him 
it  was  in  respect  to  making  as  little  noise  as  possible 
when  papa  was  in  his  study,  to  "behaving"  at 
table,  and  to  answering  "N  or  M"  to  the  question 
"What  is  your  name?"  as  well  as  going  on  with, 
"My  sponsors  in  baptism,  wherein  I  was  made," 
etc.,  etc.,  if  called  on  to  explain  the  provenance  of 
this  odd  two-lettered  appellation. 

But  there  came  a  day  when  father  and  son  began 
to  notice  each  other  a  little  more.  Scanning  his 
papa  at  breakfast  one  morning,  the  boy  saw  that 
his  papa  was  scanning  him.  He  himself  was  quite 
innocently  employed  in  taking  notes  on  the  parental 
features.  "Isn't  it  funny,"  he  was  saying  to  him 
self,  "when  papa  wrinkles  up  his  forehead  his  eye 
lids  never  move.  It  makes  him  look  kind  of— 
funny."  "  Supercilious  "  was  the  word  he  wanted,  as 
any  of  the  brother-clergy  could  have  told  him,  but 
"  funny  "  was  all  he  found.  It  was  a  word  that  filled 
a  large  place  in  his  vocabulary.  He  applied  it  now  to 
his  father's  heavy,  handsome  lids,  to  his  large  Roman 

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nose,  to  his  fading  mutton-chop  whiskers,  and  to  his 
long,  clean-shaven  upper  lip,  of  which  the  central 
point  slightly  overhung  the  lower  lip,  tempering  the 
solemnity  of  the  face  with  a  touch  of  naivete. 

It  was  a  moment,  however,  in  which  the  word 
"funny"  was  not  wholly  inappropriate,  for  the  quiver 
ing  of  the  corners  of  his  father's  long,  thin  mouth, 
which  drooped  slightly  as  his  own  did,  was  certainly 
a  little  droll.  Now  and  then,  too,  he  caught  a 
glance  telegraphed  between  his  father  and  mother 
which,  when  interpreted,  made  him  think  that 
"Something  must  be  up."  The  phrase,  recently 
acquired  from  Remnant,  was  admirably  significant 
of  mystery  in  the  air.  He  had  used  it  on  a  number 
of  occasions,  and,  with  some  elation  in  his  little 
soul,  had  recourse  to  it  again.  "  Something's 
up." 

In  the  course  of  a  few  minutes  it  became  clear 
that  anything  "up"  that  morning  must  be  in  con 
nection  with  the  letters  of  which  a  pile  lay  at  his 
father's  left  hand.  One  of  them  had  been  passed 
to  his  mother  with  the  counsel,  "Don't  say  anything 
about  it."  The  boy  was  not  so  intent  on  his  por 
ridge  but  that  he  could  see  her  read  it  with  facial 
expressions  of  astonishment,  which  were  reflected  in 
the  countenance  of  his  father  at  the  other  end  of  the 
table.  After  she  had  handed  it  back  she  asked  for  it 
again,  reading  parts  of  it  once  more. 

"It's  the  most  extraordinary  thing  I  ever  heard 
of,"  she  commented. 

The  boy's  curiosity  was  almost  unbearable,  but 
he  knew  enough  to  apply  himself  to  his  porridge, 
and  to  take  on  an  air  of  being  lost  in  thought. 
Experience  had  shown  this  to  be  the  method  that 

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produced  the  best  results.  But  he  was  aware  that 
his  father  shook  his  head  and  made  a  motion  with 
his  lips  which,  had  it  broken  into  sound,  would  have 
said  "Sh-h." 

After  breakfast,  as  his  parents  passed  into  the  hall 
he  saw  his  father  nod  backward  in  his  direction 
while  he  said: 

"Do  you  think  it  could  possibly  be — ?" 

"Not  possibly,"  his  mother  replied,  with  convic 
tion.  "I  remember  everything  that  happened  that 
morning.  I  didn't  leave  the  room  till— 

The  boy  caught  no  more,  but  he  saw  himself 
followed  by  curious  looks.  Within  a  day  or  two  he 
caught  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Legrand  glancing  at  him  in  the 
same  way.  As  with  his  mother  he  entered  the  church 
for  the  forenoon  service  on  Wednesday  morning, 
Remnant,  whom  they  passed  in  the  porch,  very 
stately  in  his  beadle's  gown,  got  a  chance  to  whisper, 
"They're  on  to  it,  sonny,"  with  a  look  of  alarm 
which,  whether  real  or  feigned,  heightened  the 
sense  of  mystery.  Moreover,  the  idiom  was  new  to 
the  boy,  and  he  had  a  taste  for  linguistic  novelties. 
He  weighed  it  and  dissected  it,  pondering  its  mono 
syllables  one  by  one,  but  without  extracting  their 
secret.  When  he  found  an  opportunity,  while 
his  mother  was  turning  up  the  hymn  which  Mr. 
Wrench  was  preluding  on  the  organ,  he  whispered: 

"What  does  'They're  on  to  it'  mean,  mama?" 

"On  to  what,  dear?"  his  mother  whispered  back. 

"That's  what  I  don't  know — and  I  don't  know 
who  they  are." 

"Hush,  darling.  Stand  up.  'Brief  life  is  here  our 
portion,'"  her  sweet  voice  began,  more  loudly  than 
she  would  have  chosen,  because  as  rector's  wife  she 

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felt  it  her  duty  to  lead  the  singing  in  the  absence 
of  the  choir. 

After  service  he  tried  to  waylay  Remnant  in  search 
of  further  explanations,  but  Remnant,  wearing  a 
defiant  air,  was  moving  down  the  aisle  in  the  train 
of  Mrs.  Hornblower. 

"You  won't  think  me  carping,"  the  boy  heard  her 
say,  "but  my  pew  is  certainly  not  kept  as  a  lady's 
pew  ought  to  be." 

"Beg  pardon,  Mrs.  Hornblower,"  Remnant  de 
clared,  stoutly,  "but  that  pew's  been  swept  twice 
since  Sunday.  There  can't  be  dust  in  it.  If  there 
is  it's  dust  I  don't  know  anything  about." 

"Then  it's  dust  you  should  know  something  about. 
I  think  you  should  know  something  about  it.  Will 
you  do  me  the  kindness  to  look?" 

The  boy  backed  away.  On  rejoining  his  mother 
he  found  her  in  conversation  with  Mrs.  Legrand. 
Other  people  stood  about  the  church,  talking  to 
gether  in  twos  and  threes.  When  they  were  gone  he 
should  get  his  word  with  Remnant. 

"Mama,"  he  whispered,  when  his  patience  was 
near  an  end,  "isn't  no  one  ever  going  home?" 

"Hush,  darling.  They're  coming  into  the  house. 
Papa  is  going  to  read  something.  And  so,  as  I  was 
saying,  I  said  to  Miss  Smedley,  said  I — " 

"Mama,  may  I  come  in  when  papa  reads  it?" 

"No,  darling.  Don't  interrupt  mama.  I  said 
to  Miss  Smedley,  said  I — " 

"Oh,  let  him  come,"  Mrs.  Legrand  broke  in.  "If 
it's  what  you  think — well,  it  will  be  such  fun. 
Don't  you  know  it  will?" 

He  thought  Mrs.  Legrand  more  adorable  than  ever. 
He  looked  up  wistfully  into  her  rosebud  face,  trying 

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to  read  there  some  key  to  the  secret  in  the  air. 
"Are  you  on  to  it,  Mrs.  Legrand?"  he  couldn't  help 
asking,  before  his  mother  could  begin  again. 

The  bride  giggled  and  gasped  at  once.  "On  to  it? 
On  to  what?  You  don't  think,"  she  added,  turning 
to  his  mother,  with  renewed  laughter,  "that  he  can 
be  throwing  dust  in  all  our — ?" 

"I'm  so  bewildered  I  don't  know  what  to  think," 
Mrs.  Grace  replied.  "Run  along,  darling,  and  tell 
Bridget  we're  coming." 

Crossing  the  grass-plot,  he  overtook  Mr.  Legrand 
on  his  way  to  the  rectory.  In  this  tall,  thin  Amer 
ican  graduate  of  Oxford,  carefully  dressed  according 
to  English  clerical  standards,  Charlie  Grace  recog 
nized  a  friend.  He  was  the  sort  of  friend  into 
whose  hand  one  could  slip  one's  own  and  speak 
confidentially. 

"Hello,  old  man,"  the  assistant  rector  said,  jovi 
ally,  when  first  greetings  had  been  exchanged. 
"How's  business?" 

"They're  on  to  it,  Mr.  Legrand,"  the  boy  ven 
tured,  looking  up  into  the  ascetic  face  to  see  what  the 
effect  would  be.  "  Remnant  told  me  so,"  he  faltered 
when  he  saw  the  young  clergyman's  comic  look  of 
surprise. 

"Yes;  so  he  told  me.  Regular  inspiration,  wasn't 
it?  All's  well  that  ends  well;  only  be  careful  what 
you  do  another  time.  It  mightn't  work  so  neatly. 
Eh?" 

This  was  disappointing.  It  put  him  in  a  worse 
position  than  before.  His  preoccupation  in  trying 
to  find  a  way  out  of  it  was  such  that  he  scarcely  no 
ticed  the  assembling  of  the  ladies  in  the  drawing- 
room  nor  his  father's  little  speech.  He  had  all  he 

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could  do,  as  he  stood  between  Mr.  Legrand's  long, 
thin,  friendly  knees,  to  puzzle  out  the  problem  as  to 
who  they  were  who  were  on  to  it,  and  what  they 
were  on.  He  became  subconsciously  aware  that  his 
father  ceased  to  speak  in  his  own  person,  and  was 
reading  from  what  seemed  to  be  a  letter.  The  fact 
had  no  significance  for  a  little  boy  occupied  with 
important  matters  of  his  own  until  the  repetition  of 
certain  names  forced  his  attention.  Bertha  and 
Georgie  and  Tommy  were  spoken  of  in  connection 
with  hats,  reefers,  and  boots  in  such  a  way  as  to 
leave  no  doubt  that  the  letter  so  breathlessly  listened 
to  by  some  twenty  ladies  and  two  men,  including 
the  reader,  was  from  the  Colorado  plains. 

Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  force  inherent  in  figure 
of  speech  got  in  its  work.  Remnant's  idiom  explained 
itself  as  vividly  as  it  could  have  been  set  forth  in 
Webster.  They  were  on  to  it.  What  else  could 
that  mean  but  that  they  were  on  to — ?  He  felt 
himself  growing  scarlet  from  the  toes  upward.  His 
knees  clave  together.  His  heart  pounded.  His 
mouth  went  dry.  One  by  one  the  various  articles 
in  the  missionary  box  were  disposed  of  in  terms  of 
gratitude.  The  stationery,  the  ink,  the  candies,  the 
tooth-brushes,  each  had  its  word  of  recognition. 
The  little  boy  clung  for  comfort  to  the  fact  that 
nothing  as  yet  had  been  said  of  Freddy  Furnival's 
train.  Perhaps  the  mere  trifling  contributions 
would  go  unmentioned.  But  no!  the  train  received 
its  meed  of  thanks,  and  then  .  .  . 

He  knew  the  minute  of  retribution  had  overtaken 
him.  He  felt  it  coming  for  some  minutes  in  advance. 
The  clarions  of  judgment  seemed  to  be  ringing  when 
his  father  read  on: 

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"'But  what  shall  I  say  of  the  wig?' ' 

The  wig?  There  was  a  movement  of  skirts  among 
the  ladies.  The  wig?  There  was  no  wig.  Who 
ever  heard  of  such  a  thing?  A  wig  indeed.  There 
must  be  a  mistake.  It  was  the  handwriting.  It 
must  be  pig  or  dig  or  something  of  that  sort.  Mrs. 
Legrand,  who  as  the  assistant's  wife  was  in  the  se 
cret,  looked  back  at  the  ladies  seated  behind  her  for 
the  fun  of  seeing  their  expressions.  Charlie  Grace 
was  kept  from  absolute  collapse  only  by  the  support 
of  Mr.  Legrand's  sharp  knees. 

"Allow  me,"  the  rector  said,  with  an  air  of  lofty 
amusement.  '"But  what  shall  I  say  of  the  wig? 
Who  among  our  kind  friends  at  St.  David's  could 
have  heard  of  the  illness  through  which  I  lost  my 
hair?  It  is  a  matter  of  which  my  wife  and  I  rarely 
speak  even  between  ourselves;  and  still  less  should 
I  think  of  setting  it  down  among  our  needs.  To  do 
so  would  have  struck  me  as  unseemly.  It  would 
have  provoked  derision.  But,  now  that  you  have 
divined  my  requirements,  I  may  confess  that  my 
want  of  a  wig  has  been  sore.  That  which  I  had  when 
I  came  out  to  the  plains  was  blown  from  my  head 
during  one  of  the  worst  of  last  winter's  storms — a 
storm  which  overtook  me  as  I  was  riding  home  from 
Proctor,  some  twenty  miles  away.  Since  then  my 
position  has  been  one  of  considerable  discomfort,  not 
only  for  lack  of  the  material  covering,  but  because 
my  appearance  in  our  improvised  places  of  worship 
has  been  such  as  to  excite  the  smiles  of  a  people 
none  too  reverent  at  any  time,  and  therefore  the 
more  prone  to  see  the  grotesque  in  church.  While 
I  have  never  blamed  them,  I  have  felt  that  no 
miracle  would  help  me  more,  either  for  my  person  or 

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in  my  work,  than  one  which  would  provide  me  with 
the  article  in  question.  It  is  surely  the  Lord  who 
has  put  the  thought  of  it  into  the  heart  of  whatever 
kind  friend  may  have  sent  it — for,  except  my  wife  and 
children,  the  Lord  alone  has  known  of  my  necessity. 
It  has  been  necessity  none  the  less  keen  for  being 
ludicrous,  and  if  I  seem  too  prolix  in  my  thanks  it  is 
because  I  can  do  nothing  else  than  look  on  the  kind 
donor  as  an  inspired  instrument  .  .  .' ' 

"My  soul  and  body!"  was  the  indecorous  exclama 
tion  forced  from  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Hornblower  as  the 
boy's  rush  for  the  door  almost  carried  her  to  the 
carpet. 

It  was  one  of  those  crises  in  which  flight  is  the 
only  adequate  resource,  in  which  the  only  refuge 
safe  enough  is  in  concealment  from  the  eyes  of  men. 
Fortunately,  he  knew  of  such  a  shelter  in  the  trunk- 
room,  at  the  top  of  the  house.  Many  a  time  during 
the  course  of  a  stormy  lifetime  had  he  hidden  himself 
there,  in  moments  of  special  shame  or  indignation,  for 
purposes  of  communing  with  his  own  heart  or  of 
defying  fate.  Now  he  lay  down  there  again,  in  a 
nest  between  two  packing-cases,  with  a  pillow  of  old 
illustrated  papers.  He  would  have  been  glad  to  be 
blotted  out,  to  leave  no  mark  on  time,  no  record 
within  the  memory  of  humankind.  He  didn't  cry. 
There  was  nothing  to  cry  for.  The  occasion  was 
one  transcending  tears.  Neither  did  he  repent, 
since  there  was  nothing  in  particular,  except  his  own 
folly,  to  repent  of.  He  only  burned — burned  all 
over — burned  with  a  veritable  fire  of  humiliation  at 
having  made  himself  ridiculous,  at  having  exposed 
his  reputation  forever,  in  the  eyes  of  Fanny  Horn- 
blower,  on  the  tongue  of  Hattie  Bright,  and  in 
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twenty  ways  in  respect  to  Freddy  Furnival,  to  asso 
ciation  for  life  with  so  despicable  an  object  as  a  wig. 

When  his  mother  found  him  he  refused  to  come 
down  to  the  midday  dinner.  He  didn't  want  any 
dinner.  He  never  wanted  to  eat  again.  He  would 
be  content  to  stay  in  his  attic  forever  and  ever. 
If  she  would  only  go  away  and  leave  him  he  would  be 
glad  to  starve  to  death.  People  starved  to  death  on 
desert  islands;  he  knew  that;  and  what  could  be 
more  like  a  desert  island  than  a  forsaken  attic  at  the 
top  of  a  rectory  in  New  York?  It  would  be  a  desert 
island  if  nobody  never,  never  came  near  him  any 
more,  and  that  was  what  he  asked  for. 

His  mother  knelt  down  on  the  dusty  floor  beside 
him.  "My  precious,  it's  all  right.  You  didn't  do 
any  harm.  It  was  quite  the  other  way  round.  You 
heard  what  the  letter  said — how  glad  Mr.  Waters 
was  to  get  it.  We  all  think  it's  wonderful.  It  is 
wonderful.  Of  course  you  shouldn't  have  taken 
anything  out  of  the  Girls'  Friendly  chest  when  it 
didn't  belong  to  you.  But  if  it  was  God  who  put  it 
into  your  heart,  darling — " 

"  It  wasn't.  It  was  Remnant.  He  told  me  to  dive 
down  my  hand  and — 

"Well,  it  was  wonderful.  And  poor  Mr.  Waters 
in  such  need  of  it !  An  inspired  instrument  was  what 
he  said.  And  you  should  have  heard  the  rest  of  the 
letter,  too,  darling — how  Mrs.  Waters  trimmed  the 
wig  up,  and  made  it  fit  her  husband's  head,  and  found 
a  way  to  fasten  it  on,  just  like  a  hair-dresser,  you 
know,  and  everything.  I  must  get  papa  to  read  it 
to  you." 

"I  don't  want  to!"  he  cried,  desperately.  "I'm 
not  going  down  to  dinner,  mama.  I'm  going  to  live 

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up  here.  Don't  bring  me  nothing — nothing  at  all 
— unless,"  he  relented — "unless  there's  going  to  be 
chicken-pie.  Julia  said  there  was  going  to  be 
chicken-pie." 

"There  is,  darling.  Now  get  up,  like  a  precious. 
Don't  be  foolish.  Come  along  with  mama,  who 
loves  you  and  can't  do  without  you." 

No  tears  came  till  they  were  descending  the  second 
flight  of  stairs.  Even  then  it  was  not  so  much  tears 
as  a  convulsive  sob.  He  clutched  at  his  mother's 
skirt  and  refused  to  go  farther. 

"Mama." 

"What  is  it  now,  darling?" 

"You  won't  let  them  call  me  Wiggy  Grace,  will 
you?" 

"Call  you — what?" 

"Call  me  Wiggy  Grace.  If  it  was  Freddy  I'd  call 
him  Wiggy  Furnival.  But,  oh,  mama,  don't  let 
them!  Promise  me  you  won't  let  them." 

"Of  course  I  won't  let  them,  dear.  They'll  never 
think  of  such  a  thing." 

And  they  never  did.  Whether  the  incident  made 
less  talk  than  the  hero  of  it  expected,  or  whether  it 
never  reached  the  ears  of  Freddy  Furnival  and 
Hattie  Bright — he  wouldn't  have  so  much  minded 
gentle  Fanny  Hornblower — he  was  never  twitted 
with  his  part  in  it.  As  time  went  on  nothing  but 
the  more  amusing  elements  of  the  episode  remained 
of  it.  But,  though  the  story  became  legendary  when 
ever  a  missionary  box  was  sent  out  by  the  ladies  of 
St.  David's  Church,  Charlie  Grace  could  never  be 
induced  to  tell  the  tale  himself. 


CHAPTER  IV 

/CHARLIE  GRACE  could  never  be  induced  to 
\r*  tell  the  tale  himself  chiefly  because  his  mother 
saw  in  it  more  than  met  the  eye.  It  made  him  un 
comfortable  to  be  taken  as  an  "inspired  instrument" 
when  he  knew  himself  to  have  been  only  a  wilful 
youngster.  Nevertheless,  the  understanding  that 
he  was  one  day  to  be  a  clergyman  grew  out  of  this 
set  of  circumstances.  It  was  clear  to  the  mind  of 
Mrs.  Grace  that  a  child  so  singularly  chosen  as  an 
infant  Samuel  must  be  destined  to  a  sacred  calling, 
while  to  her  husband  his  own  profession  appeared 
better  than  any  other.  The  fact  that  he  himself  had 
made  a  success  of  it  was  an  argument  in  its  favor 
when  it  came  to  a  question  of  his  son.  There  was  no 
such  thing  as  a  decision  on  the  point  either  on  the 
boy's  part  or  that  of  his  parents.  The  processes 
by  which  they  came  to  take  it  for  granted  were 
imperceptible  to  all  three  minds.  The  nearest 
approach  ever  made  to  a  discussion  of  the  subject 
was  on  an  occasion  when  the  lad  was  nine  or  ten 
years  old.  His  mother  had  begun  a  sentence  with 
"When  you're  a  clergyman,  darling — 

Into  this  his  father  had  thought  it  well  to  interject, 
"If  he  ever  is  one." 

"Oh,  but  he  will  be,"  Mrs.  Grace  said,  eagerly. 
"You  mean  to  be,  don't  you,  dear?" 

The  question — if  it  was  a  question — was  put  so 

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confidently  that  the  boy  could  only  murmur,  "Yes, 
mama."  He  did  "mean  to  be,"  but  he  would  have 
preferred  a  less  direct  way  of  declaring  his  intentions. 
Even  so,  he  knew  there  were  loopholes  through 
which  he  might  have  crept  back  and  changed  his 
mind  if  his  mother  hadn't  died. 

Charlie  Grace  was  never  very  clear  as  to  how  she 
died  or  why  she  died.  In  after  life  he  could  not 
recall  that  she  had  been  ill — exactly.  She  had  been 
delicate.  Every  one  said  that.  There  was  some 
anxiety  about  it.  Julia  had  even  gone  so  far  as  to 
throw  the  blame  for  it  on  him.  "If  it  hadn't  been 
for  you,  you  rogue,  she'd  be  as  well  as  anny  one. 
She's  niver  had  the  look  o'  health  since  you  come 
along." 

He  was  so  sensitive  to  this  injustice  that  he  laid 
Julia's  accusation  before  Remnant.  Remnant  lis 
tened  judicially,  his  eye  cocked,  his  head  to  one  side. 

"It  isn't  you,  sonny,"  he  said,  at  last;  "it's  the 
whole  thing." 

It  was  perhaps  this  summing-up  which  enabled 
Charlie  Grace,  years  later,  when  he  was  old  enough 
to  understand,  to  piece  together  his  mother's  story 
out  of  all  sorts  of  scraps,  seen  and  heard  and  hinted 
at.  It  was  so  simple  a  story  as  to  make  no  appeal  to 
any  heart  but  his  own. 

He  saw  her  as  the  youngest  child  of  a  country 
lawyer  who  had  been  his  father's  chum  at  college. 
The  two  men  had  maintained  an  intermittent  inter 
course  through  years  in  which  life  had  carried  them 
to  different  spheres  of  action;  but  when  chance  took 
the  New  York  divine  on  a  holiday  to  the  "up-state" 
village  of  Horsehair  Hill  something  of  the  old 
friendship  was  renewed.  Enough  of  it,  at  least,  was 

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renewed  for  the  seven-years  widower  to  see  much  of 
Milly  Downs,  and  for  a  few  infatuated  weeks  to 
think  her  the  companion  destined  to  console  his 
loneliness.  It  was  that  moment  of  danger  to  an 
elderly  life — the  season  of  the  autumn  violets — when 
youth  seems  to  hold  out  the  impossible  promise 
of  a  returning  spring.  A  month  sufficed  to  show  the 
reverend  man  his  error,  but  before  it  passed  the 
mischief  was  done.  To  the  sweet  girl  whose  life 
had  always  been  too  retired  to  be  gay,  and  whose 
spirit  was  so  gentle  that  it  never  could  have  been 
really  young,  the  honor  of  kind  looks,  kind  words, 
and  perhaps  some  tenderness  from  a  great  man 
from  a  great  city  was  overwhelming.  To  Charlie 
Grace's  mind — when,  as  a  young  man,  he  thought  it 
over — there  were  not  wanting  signs  that  his  father 
must  have  been  on  the  verge  of  withdrawing,  perhaps 
with  a  little  dismay,  when  he  saw  that  withdrawal 
was  too  late. 

The  sequel  was  natural  enough.  It  was  not  sur 
prising  that  the  man  who,  according  to  Remnant, 
could  have  had  Miss  Smedley  and  all  her  money— 
the  man  who  was  the  admiration  of  one  of  the  most 
distinguished  circles  in  New  York — should  have 
come  in  for  comment  when  he  stooped  in  this  sud 
den  manner  to  gather  a  wayside  flower.  An  elderly 
man,  too,  who  might  be  considered  to  have  outlived 
the  days  of  poetry!  Since  his  children  were  grown 
up  there  was  really  no  reason  why  he  should  have 
married  again  at  all;  and  if  he  chose  to  exercise  his 
right  in  this  respect — why,  there  was  Miss  Smedley 
and  her  money. 

And  yet  when  young  Mrs.  Grace  actually  came  to 
the  rectory  she  was  very  well  received.  That  was 

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not  to  be  gainsaid.  If  St.  David's  had  received  a 
shock  it  had  that  savoir  vivre  which  enables  well-bred 
people  to  surmount  disturbances.  St.  David's  was 
undoubtedly  kind  to  Mrs.  Grace.  Miss  Smedley, 
with  a  tact  which  all  admitted  to  be  perfect,  showed 
her  a  special  friendship,  while  Mrs.  Hornblower  was 
heard  openly  to  express  the  intention  "of  forming 
her  for  her  place." 

The  difficulty  was  really  with  Mrs.  Grace  herself. 
More  than  the  most  exacting  parishioner  she  was  con 
vinced  of  her  insufficiency  for  her  new  life  and  her 
husband's  station.  New  York  bewildered  her;  St. 
David's  appalled  her.  The  society  into  which  she 
was  thrown  was  so  intricate,  so  complex.  When  she 
came  to  see,  as  by  the  mere  process  of  living  with 
her  husband  she  had  to  come  to  see,  that  their  mar 
riage  had  caught  him  at  a  disadvantage,  there  was 
but  one  way  for  a  soul  like  hers  to  take.  Charlie 
Grace  could  look  back  and  see  her  taking  it;  he 
could  see  her  taking  it  through  the  very  years  when 
he  had  been  clinging  to  her  skirts  and  lisping  at  her 
knee.  There  was  probably  some  physical  or  tem 
peramental  weakness,  too.  He  was  never  sure  about 
it.  He  never  cared  to  go  into  it.  He  could  not 
remember  that  she  was  ever  ill.  She  only  grew 
more  delicate,  and  then  more  delicate.  He  recalled 
hearing  Mrs.  Hornblower  say  one  day  to  his  father: 

"Mr.  Rector,  you  won't  think  me  interfering,  but 
you  should  take  Mrs.  Grace  away.  I  think  you 
should  take  her  away.  If  you  don't  I  shall  not 
answer  for  the  consequences.  She  needs  change  and 
rest.  She  needs  a  great  deal  of  rest." 

That  was  in  the  early  summer  of  1880,  when  he 
was  eleven  years  old.  She  went  to  Horsehair  Hill. 

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She  wanted  to  take  him  with  her,  but  the  doctor 
said  "No."  She  was  to  go  back  to  her  father's 
house  and  renew  her  strength  by  becoming  a  girl 
again.  He  retained  no  very  clear  recollection  of  the 
sequence  of  happenings  after  that.  At  first  she  was 
getting  better;  then  she  was  not  so  well;  then  she  was 
able  to  take  a  drive;  then  she  was  confined  to  bed. 
News  came  spasmodically  and  inconsequently,  as 
though  there  were  no  definite  progress  either  up  or 
down.  In  August,  when  his  father's  holiday  began, 
he,  too,  went  to  Horsehair  Hill.  The  boy  was  left 
in  town  to  spend  a  desolate  school  vacation  in  charge 
of  Remnant  and  the  servants.  Now  and  then  Mrs. 
Furnival  or  Mrs.  Hornblower  would  take  him  for  a 
night  or  two  to  their  places  on  Long  Island. 

Then  there  came  a  time  of  which  all  his  memories 
were  blurred.  A  strange  farmer-uncle,  the  husband 
of  a  married  sister  of  his  mother's,  came  to  fetch 
him  from  Vandiver  Place.  At  Horsehair  Hill  noth 
ing  was  as  it  had  ever  been  before.  His  grandfather 
was  mooning  over  the  place  half  dazed.  Uncles  and 
aunts  on  the  mother's  side  whom  the  boy  scarcely 
knew  were  in  attendance.  His  father  rarely  left 
his  mother's  bedside.  When  he,  the  boy,  was  ad 
mitted  to  the  darkened  room  he  hardly  knew  her. 
She  was  propped  up  on  the  pillows,  and  seemed 
neither  awake  nor  asleep.  She  smiled  faintly, 
though,  and  as  he  leaned  clumsily  across  the  bed 
to  kiss  her  she  tried  to  lift  her  hand  and  lay  it  on 
his  head.  It  was  a  long  minute  before  she  spoke. 

"Did  Bridget  get  all  your  clean  clothes  from  the 
wash,  darling?" 

"Yes,  mama." 

''That's  good."  It  was  all  she  had  strength  to  say. 

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His  father  nodded  toward  the  door,  and  he  tip 
toed  from  the  room. 

For  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  he  was  uncomfortable. 
The  attentions  of  so  many  uncles  and  aunts  bored 
him.  Queer  cousins  turned  up,  looking  for  recogni 
tion.  "Don't  you  know  me?"  was  a  question  of 
which  he  grew  tired.  He  could  remember  dis 
tinctly  saying  to  himself  that  he  hoped  it  wouldn't 
go  on  very  long  like  that.  He  made  no  attempt  to 
define  what  he  meant  by  "it."  On  one  point  he  was 
clear — that  "it"  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  mother. 
That  was  not  his  mother,  that  still,  white  form  in  the 
dim  room  up-stairs.  He  had  been  called  to  Horse 
hair  Hill  on  some  heartbreaking  errand,  the  nature 
of  which  was  a  little  vague;  but  his  mother  wasn't 
there. 

He  had  the  same  feeling  about  the  funeral.  He 
remembered  its  taking  place  after  an  interval  of  a 
few  days  in  which  he  had  grown  accustomed  to  his 
surroundings.  He  had  begun  to  follow  the  daily 
drama  at  Horsehair  Hill,  into  the  interests  of  which 
he  was  initiated  by  Cousin  Bob  Gunnison,  also  eleven 
years  of  age,  with  whom  he  slept.  He  heard  about 
grandpa's  horse,  and  his  two  cows,  and  the  number 
of  hens,  chickens,  ducks,  geese,  and  turkeys  on  the 
small  estate.  He  got  much  valuable  data,  too,  as  to 
the  habits  and  character  of  Stores,  his  grandpa's 
"hired  man."  He  grew  intimate  with  Stores,  and 
helped  him  select  the  broilers  which  the  presence  of 
so  many  uncles  and  aunts  made  it  needful  to  broil. 
Once,  when  a  green  goose  which  should  by  rights  have 
lived  another  month  was  chosen  to  supplement  the 
broilers,  Stores  allowed  him  to  take  the  ax  and  cut 
off  its  head.  Of  all  the  incidents  of  those  days  at 

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Horsehair  Hill  none  remained  more  painfully  in  the 
memory  of  Charlie  Grace  than  that  decapitation. 

The  funeral  was  scarcely  painful  at  all.  It  was 
rather  an  occasion  of  solemn  stir,  of  awesome  nov 
elty,  imposing  and  strange,  but  infused  with  that 
cruelly  interesting  quality  inherent,  to  the  mind  of 
eleven  years,  in  "something  going  on."  A  great 
deal  was  going  on.  There  was  a  large  assembly  of 
people  in  black,  both  men  and  women.  Downses 
and  Gunnisons  gathered  from  all  over  the  county. 
His  father  moved  among  them  benignly,  shaking 
every  hand,  calling  most  of  the  connection  by  name. 
He  was  noble,  like  a  prince.  No  one  could  question 
his  grief,  and  yet  he  did  little  or  nothing  to  show  it. 
Some  of  the  lady  cousins,  indeed,  thought  that  a 
trifle  more  in  the  way  of  demonstration  might  have 
been  becoming;  but  the  lack  of  it  was  ascribed  to  his 
being  a  New-Yorker  and  an  "Episcopal."  It  was 
well  known  that  an  "Episcopal"  could  be  formal 
and  cold  in  circumstances  where  an  "Orthodock" 
would  give  way  to  feeling. 

It  was  a  foregone  conclusion  that  the  ceremony 
would  take  place  in  the  little  Episcopal  church;  but 
that  again  was  something  to  be  borne.  Most  of  the 
relatives  made  no  secret  of  their  preference  for  a 
"home  funeral"  with  a  eulogy.  "What's  a  eulogy, 
mama?"  Charlie  Grace  heard  himself  mentally  ask 
ing;  and  a  lump  rose  in  his  throat.  The  impossi 
bility  of  putting  that  question  brought  home  to  him 
his  first  real  sense  of  loss. 

But  it  passed.  As  side  by  side  with  his  father  he 
followed  the  coffin,  so  shiny  and  new,  out  of  the 
stuffy  parlor,  he  had  but  little  feeling  that  his  mama 
was  in  it.  His  father  walked  with  head  bared  and 


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bowed,  while  he  could  feel  himself  moving  along 
sturdily  and  erect.  In  the  village  street  he  no 
ticed  the  signs  of  sympathy,  blinds  down  or  shops 
closed,  and  was  even  a  little  proud  of  the  effect.  It 
showed  the  honor  in  which  the  Downses  and  Gunni- 
sons  were  held;  but  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  his 
mother. 

The  Episcopal  church  stood  slightly  aloof  from  the 
village.  The  white  steeples  of  the  Methodist  and 
Congregational  places  of  worship  shot  straight  up 
out  of  Main  Street,  with  a  conscious  right  to  the 
soil.  The  small,  inexpensive  wooden  building  dedi 
cated  to  All  Saints,  quite  correctly  Early  English, 
with  its  lancet  windows,  and  its  spire  jauntily  rising 
from  a  tower  at  the  conventional  northwest  corner, 
came  shyly,  as  it  were,  over  the  hill  from  Dallinger 
Gap,  to  perch  itself  barely  within  the  limits  of  a 
community  where  it  was  not  entirely  welcome. 
Every  one  knew  that  if  there  had  been  no  summer 
residents  at  Dallinger  Gap  there  would  have  been  no 
Episcopal  church  at  Horsehair  Hill — a  circumstance 
which  was  said,  in  the  language  of  people  who  chose 
their  words,  to  have  "created  feeling." 

To  reach  All  Saints  the  little  procession  turned  out 
of  Main  Street  to  follow  a  lane  all  purple  and  yellow 
with  Michaelmas  daisies  and  goldenrod.  A  few 
children  picking  blackberries  paused  in  their  task 
to  look.  A  cow  came  half-way  across  a  meadow 
to  gaze  over  a  fence  in  a  dumb,  pitiful  stare.  A  mare 
nosing  her  foal  glanced  backward  with  eyes  timid 
and  wondering.  Otherwise  the  little  procession 
wound  its  way  up  the  hill  through  a  shrill  summer 
stillness. 

At  the  church  door  there  was  the  usual  poignant 


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delay.  Black-coated  men  drew  the  coffin  with  an 
oily  ease  out  of  the  long  hearse.  Father  and  son 
began  to  follow  it  up  the  steps. 

"I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life,  saith  the 
Lord.  He  that  believeth  in  Me,  though  he  were 
dead,  yet  shall  he  live.  And  whosoever  liveth  and 
believeth  in  Me  shall  never  die." 

The  boy  slipped  his  hand  into  his  father's.  The 
voice  coming  out  of  the  empty  church  had  the  effect 
of  that  mysterious  call  which  his  mother  seemed  to 
have  heard  and  followed.  She  was  following  it 
now — in — in — forward — forward — while  they  pressed 
along  behind. 

He  was  startled,  overawed.  This,  then,  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  her.  After  all,  she  was  there,  in 
that  long,  shiny  box  with  the  tawdry  handles,  and 
the  flowers  on  top.  She  must  be,  for  his  father  was 
crying — that  is,  he  was  blinking  his  eyes  and  wrin 
kling  his  forehead  in  an  effort  to  check  more  tears  than 
the  two  already  coursing  down  his  cheeks.  The  boy 
himself  had  no  inclination  to  cry.  He  was  too  much 
concerned  with  the  Voice,  which  continued  to  roll 
on  with  a  haunting  solemnity: 

"Lord,  Thou  hast  been  our  refuge  from  one  gen 
eration  to  another.  Before  the  mountains  were 
brought  forth,  or  ever  the  earth  and  the  world  were 
made,  Thou  art  God  from  everlasting  and  world 
without  end.  Thou  turnest  man  to  destruction; 
again  Thou  sayest,  Come  again,  ye  children  of 
men." 

He  could  follow  the  words  the  more  easily  because 
they  were  tolerably  familiar.  He  was  a  choir-boy 
in  these  years  and  sang  them  in  church.  He  had 
never  thought  of  their  meaning,  nor  did  he  think 

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of  it  now;  but  they  rolled  over  him  with  a  power  of 
sonority,  immensity,  eternity,  like  the  sound  of  the 
sea  or  peals  from  an  organ. 

Then  it  was  like  an  anthem,  an  anthem  such  as  he 
had  never  heard  and  yet  could  imagine. 

"Now  is  Christ  risen  from  the  dead  and  become 
the  first-fruits  of  them  that  slept.  For  since  by  man 
came  death,  by  man  came  also  the  resurrection  of  the 
dead.  For  as  in  Adam  all  die,  even  so  in  Christ  shall 
all  be  made  alive." 

He  still  had  no  inclination  to  cry.  He  sat  with 
his  hands — on  which  one  of  his  aunts  had  pulled  a 
pair  of  black  cotton  gloves — folded  in  his  lap,  and 
his  feet,  which  now  reached  to  the  floor,  kicking  a 
hassock  nervously.  His  head  being  slightly  thrown 
back,  the  long,  pointed  chin,  inherited  from  his 
mother,  had  the  mystic,  yearning  expression  with 
which  the  shifting  of  an  angle  could  endue  it.  Over 
the  altar  was  a  stained -glass  Good  Shepherd  all 
out  of  proportion,  carrying  on  his  shoulder  a  sheep 
that  looked  like  a  rabbit.  He  traced  the  outlines 
of  the  rabbit  with  his  eye,  while  with  his  ear  he 
followed  the  onward  sweep  of  the  apostolic 
strain: 

"For  this  corruptible  must  put  on  incorruption, 
and  this  mortal  must  put  on  immortality.  So  when 
this  corruptible  shall  have  put  on  incorruption,  and 
this  mortal  shall  have  put  on  immortality,  then  shall 
be  brought  to  pass  the  saying  that  is  written,  Death 
is  swallowed  up  in  victory." 

"Death  is  swallowed  up  in  victory.  Death  is 
swallowed  up  in  victory.  Death  is  swallowed  up  in 
victory." 

His  repetition  of  the  words  was  purely  mechanical. 

S3 


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It  was  but  the  haunting  of  a  phrase  too  heavily 
laden  with  prophecy  to  be  easily  comprehensible. 
It  had  not  more  definiteness  of  meaning  to  him  than 
any  of  the  utterances  of  Job,  Moses,  or  Jesus  Christ, 
which  had  just  been  sweeping  across  his  soul. 
"Death  is  swallowed  up  in  victory."  He  dis 
covered  that  by  repeating  it  in  a  certain  way  it  had  a 
sound  like  the  booming  of  cannon — or  was  it  the 
ringing  of  bells  ?  It  had  a  throb  and  a  measure  to  it, 
too.  One  could  walk  to  it.  One  could  walk  to  it 
like  a  soldier  or  a  priest  or  a  mourner.  His  uncle 
Frank  might  have  walked  to  it  when  he  marched 
toward  Gettysburg;  his  father  was  walking  to  it 
now  as  they  went  down  the  aisle;  he  himself  was 
walking  to  it,  down  the  aisle,  out  into  the  daylight, 
and  along  the  churchyard  path  to  where  a  little 
mound  of  earth  marked  their  goal. 

But  he  found  himself  unable  to  listen  here  as  he 
had  listened  in  the  church.  There  was  too  much  to 
observe.  There  was  the  placing  of  the  coffin  on 
the  bars  across  the  open  grave.  There  was  the 
grave  itself,  so  narrow  and  deep.  There  was  the 
clergyman  in  his  white  surplice,  looking  out  of 
keeping  with  green  trees  and  the  open  air.  Lastly, 
there  was  Uncle  Frank's  headstone,  beside  which  the 
new  grave  had  been  made.  He  read  the  inscription 
once  or  twice.  He  liked  reading  it.  For  reasons  he 
could  not  fathom  it  appealed  jo  him.  "Francis 
Gunnison  Downs,  who,  at  Gettysburg,  gave  his  life 
for  his  country  and  his  soul  to  God.  Aged  23. 
Give  peace  in  our  time,  0  Lord"  He  liked  that. 
It  was  terse  and  manly.  If  he  were  ever  to  die, 
which  seemed  improbable,  he  would  be  glad  of  some 
thing  of  the  sort  over  him. 

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And  then  suddenly  he  found  himself  clutching  his 
father's  arm  and  calling  out  wildly:  "Papa!  Oh, 
don't  let  them!" 

They  had  pulled  away  the  crosspieces,  and  with 
a  wriggling,  irregular  motion  the  coffin  was  going 
down. 

Except  for  that  one  irrepressible  cry  he  controlled 
himself.  He  knew  the  coffin  must  go  down,  that  it 
must  lie  there  and  be  covered  up.  He  was  a  big 
boy  now,  and  must  have  "sense."  He  did  his  best 
to  attain  to  "sense,"  pressing  his  palm  tightly  over 
his  mouth  and  keeping  back  the  sobs  while  the  earth 
was  shoveled  in. 

It  was  only  when  they  turned  away  from  the  grave, 
he  and  his  father  side  by  side,  that  the  feeling  re 
turned  to  him  again  that  they  were  not  leaving  his 
mama  behind  them. 


CHAPTER  V 

ON  the  way  back  to  New  York  that  afternoon 
Charlie  Grace  had  his  first  feeling  of  respon 
sibility.  It  came  to  him  quite  naturally  as,  seated 
in  the  train,  he  noticed  his  father's  bowed  back  and 
bent  head.  He  had  no  sense  of  a  charge  being  laid 
upon  him  or  of  a  burden  to  be  taken  up;  he  merely 
said  to  himself,  "I  must  be  company  for  papa."  It 
never  occurred  to  him  before  that  a  day  might 
come  when  his  father  would  look  to  him  as  he  had 
hitherto  looked  to  his  father,  nor  could  it  be  said 
to  have  occurred  to  him  now;  but,  sitting  in  the  red- 
plush  seat,  his  eye  roving  from  the  green  wooded 
banks  of  the  Hudson  on  the  left  to  the  big,  brooding 
figure  on  the  right,  he  felt  in  a  dim  way  that  the 
relative  positions  of  father  and  son  had  begun  to 
change. 

After  supper  that  evening  he  carried  his  lesson- 
books  boldly  into  the  study,  as  he  had  never  done 
before,  saying: 

"May  I  sit  here,  papa?" 

There  was  that  in  his  tone  which  took  the  answer 
for  granted.  He  knew  it  must  be  a  comfort  for  his 
father  to  have  him  near,  even  though  the  latter  only 
said:  "Certainly,  my  boy.  Come  in  whenever  you 
feel  lonely."  Making  himself  snug  in  an  arm-chair 
near  a  good  light,  he  pretended  to  be  studying  while 
he  watched  his  father  sort  the  letters  that  had 

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piled   up   for    him   during    the    latter   days    of   his 
absence. 

As  the  rector  of  an  important  city  parish  Dr. 
Grace  took  his  correspondence  seriously.  He  liked 
it  to  be  large;  he  liked  the  sense  of  importance  he 
got  from  being  written  to  on  a  wide  variety  of  sub 
jects.  Just  now  his  letters  were  chiefly  those  of 
sympathy  on  his  recent  bereavement,  but  it  was  a 
consolation  in  itself  to  note  the  extensiveness  of  the 
circle,  both  clerical  and  secular,  from  which  they  came. 

Following  his  father's  preoccupation,  the  boy  made 
the  reflection — with  a  swallowed  sob — that  it  was 
still  possible  for  life  to  go  on.  Even  here  in  this 
empty  house,  where  there  was  no  light  in  the  big 
front  bedroom,  and  no  rustle  of  skirts  on  the  stair, 
and  no  sweet  voice  to  say  at  nine  o'clock,  "Now, 
Charlie,  dear,  it's  time  to  go  to  bed" — even  here  life 
could  go  on.  In  the  halls  and  the  study  there  was  a 
faint  odor  of  boiling  fruit  and  sugar,  announcing  the 
fact  that  at  the  very  moment  when  the  little  black 
procession  had  been  creeping  up  to  the  churchyard 
at  Horsehair  Hill  Julia  had  been  making  raspberry 
jam. 

Though  he  was  aware  that  raspberry  jam  would  be 
appreciated  during  the  winter,  this  callousness  re 
volted  him.  He  got  up  and  began  moving  restlessly 
about  the  room.  Because  he  grew  suddenly  con 
scious  of  a  yearning  in  every  nerve  and  an  aching  in 
every  limb,  he  thrust  his  hands  nonchalantly  into  his 
trousers  pockets  and  began  to  inspect  the  framed 
photographs  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  and  the  High 
Street  at  Oxford,  hanging  on  the  walls,  as  if  he  had 
never  seen  them  before.  It  was  a  relief  to  find  his 
father  too  deeply  engrossed  in  his  letters  of  con- 
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dolence  to  notice  him.  It  enabled  him  to  slip 
unperceived  up-stairs  to  his  mother's  room,  where, 
the  blinds  being  raised,  there  was  light  enough  from 
the  street-lamp  on  the  other  side  of  the  greensward 
to  enable  him  to  move  about. 

The  place  was  oddly  full  of  her  presence.  He  could 
almost  see  her  sitting  in  her  arm-chair  by  the  fire 
place.  He  went  to  it,  hanging  over  the  back  lovingly. 
He  crept  about  the  room,  fingering  the  things  she 
had  been  accustomed  to  use — a  pin-cushion,  a  hair 
brush,  the  pens  and  pencils  on  her  desk.  He 
smoothed  her  pillow  and  pressed  his  cheek  down  into 
its  cool  softness.  He  opened  the  door  of  the  big 
closet  in  which  her  dresses  were  still  hanging,  and, 
gathering  an  armful  of  them  to  his  breast,  he  kissed 
them  passionately.  He  drew  in  long  breaths,  getting, 
so  it  seemed  to  him,  the  very  smell  of  her  person — a 
clean,  dry,  country  smell  like  that  of  new-mown  hay. 
Rising  sobs  sent  him  down-stairs  again. 

"Very  gratifying,  all  this  sympathy,"  his  father 
said,  as  the  boy  re-entered  the  study.  "The  bishop 
is  especially  kind — and  the  more  so  in  that  he  and  I 
haven't  always  seen  eye  to  eye.  I  shall  keep  these 
letters  for  you,  my  boy.  You'll  appreciate  them 
when  you're  older." 

"Papa,  what  does  'Death  is  swallowed  up  in 
victory'  mean?" 

He  stood  questioningly  before  his  father's  desk. 
Dr.  Grace  lifted  his  fine  brows  with  that  movement 
which  left  the  eyes  still  concealed  beneath  their 
heavy  lids.  He  arranged  his  letters  in  little  piles. 
When  he  spoke  he  brought  out  his  sentences  with  an 
oratorical  rotundity  suggesting  the  repetition  of 
phrases  from  old  sermons. 

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"It's  the  expression  of  an  inspiration  which  comes 
out  of  the  very  earliest  yearnings  of  mankind. 
The  writer  of  the  Book  of  Genesis  probably  had  it  in 
mind  when  he  spoke  of  a  Tree  in  the  midst  of  the 
Garden — that  is,  a  force  in  the  midst  of  earthly 
existence — which  could  make  for  immortality.  Even 
the  Greeks  had  some  intimation — a  presentiment, 
one  might  say — of  the  same  thing,  as  we  can  read 
in  their  legends  of  Alcestis,  of  Eurydice,  and  of 
Laodamia.  I  know,  too,  of  few  finer  passages  in 
literature  than  that  in  the  Phaedo  of  Plato,  in 
which  Socrates  argues  that  death  may  be  the  greatest 
of  all  good  things  to  men.  In  the  life  and  death  and 
resurrection  of  Jesus  Christ  the  Apostles  naturally 
saw  these  hopes  and  longings  fulfilled — saw  life  and 
immortality  brought  to  light  by  the  Gospel,  as  St. 
Paul  says — and  so  drew  the  conclusion  they  expressed 
with  so  much  ecstasy  in  the  cry — an  echo  of  the 
prophet  Isaiah — that  death  had  been  swallowed  up 
in  victory.  Do  you  understand  ?" 

The  boy  hesitated.  "I  understand  some  of  it, 
papa — I  think." 

"Some  of  it  is  all  you  can  be  expected  to  under 
stand  now.  The  rest  will  come  when  you're  older." 
Feeling  himself  dismissed,  he  went  back  to  his  book 
with  a  little  sigh.  The  haunting  phrase  had  become 
curiously  disappointing  when  historically  explained. 
He  hoped  it  might  have  had  some  bearing  on  what 
had  happened  to  his  mother,  but  apparently  it  had 
none — or  very  little. 

His  father  broke  in  on  these  thoughts  with  the 
observation:  "Here's  a  letter  from  your  sister 
Emma.  She  had  just  received  the  sad  news,  and 
writes  very  feelingly.  She  says,  too,  that  she  may 

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be  able  to  make  us  a  little  visit  before  the  winter. 
You'd  like  that,  wouldn't  you,  my  boy?" 

He  answered,  dutifully,  "Yes,  papa,"  but  in  reality 
the  prospect  of  a  visit  from  this  grown-up  married 
sister  whom  he  had  never  seen  stirred  in  him  all  sorts 
of  jealousies  on  behalf  of  his  mama.  He  knew  well 
enough  that  if  his  mama  hadn't  died  his  sister  would 
not  have  come;  and,  while  he  owned  to  some  curiosity 
with  regard  to  the  person  of  one  so  nearly  related 
to  himself,  he  resented  a  sympathy  that  took  this 
form.  He  was  a  little  indignant  that  his  father 
should  not  resent  it,  too,  though  he  had  long  ago  seen 
by  intuition  that  the  latter,  inwardly  at  least, 
justified  the  children  of  his  first  wife  in  their  stand 
toward  his  second.  It  was  as  if  he  admitted  that 
in  marrying  again  he  had  wronged  them. 

"Is  Mr.  Tomlinson  coming,  too?"  he  felt  moved  to 
ask. 

The  rector  answered  absently,  while  running  his 
eye  over  another  letter:  "Osborne  will  come  if  he 
gets  back  in  time  from  Canada.  He's  been  ex 
ploring  in  the  new  regions  they  seem  to  be  opening  up 
in  their  northwest.  Emma  writes  that  he's  interested 
in  this  railway  business  they're  exploiting  there. 
Rather  a  wild  scheme,  it  seems  to  me.  Yes,  he 
hopes  to  come,  and  they  will  bring  Sophy,  too. 
You'll  like  that,  won't  you?" 

He  said  "Yes,  papa"  with  the  same  air  of  dutiful 
assent. 

"They  want  to  find  a  school  for  Sophy  in  New 
York,"  the  father  continued,  still  scanning  his 
letters.  "I  shall  suggest  St.  Margaret's.  Hilda 
Penrhyn  is  there,  and  Mrs.  Penrhyn  finds  it  very 
satisfactory.  There's  a  distant  relationship  between 

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Mrs.  Penrhyn  and  Osborne  Tomlinson  which  will 
make  it  pleasant  for  the  two  girls.  I  want  you  to 
know  the  Penrhyns  some  day.  You'll  find  them 
useful  acquaintances  when  you're  older.  Very  dis 
tinguished  family.  No  better  blood  in  New  York." 

His  heart  swelled  again.  It  was  as  if  a  lot  of  new 
people  were  entering  on  the  scene  just  because  his 
mama  had  left  it.  They  would  fill  up  her  place  so 
that  even  her  memory  would  be  crowded  out. 
She  had  been  buried  only  that  afternoon,  and  yet 
his  father  was  looking  forward  with  pleasant  antici 
pation  to  a  future  with  people  who  were  strangers 
to  her.  He  wondered  if  grown-up  men  could  feel 
grief  with  the  desolating  intensity  of  boys  of  eleven. 
Perhaps  they  couldn't.  It  was  doubtless  sheer 
incapacity  for  sorrow  that  enabled  his  father  to  give 
himself  to  his  letters  and  the  prospect  of  Emma's 
return  home  with  a  preoccupation  he  himself 
couldn't  bring  to  bear  on  the  third  Latin  declension. 
Having  been  charged  to  master  it  during  the  summer, 
he  had  tackled  it  to-night  purely  because  he  recalled 
an  occasion  when  his  mama  had  told  him  not  to 
forget  it;  but  it  was  study  only  in  name.  Problems 
of  life  and  death  rendered  grammar  even  duller  than 
it  had  a  right  to  be. 

He  rose  when  the  clock  struck  nine.  It  was  what 
his  mama  would  have  reminded  him  to  do  had  she 
been  there.  With  some  awkwardness  he  approached 
the  desk,  which  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  to 
say  good  night.  His  father  had  begun  to  write — 
probably  to  acknowledge  the  more  important  of  his 
letters  of  condolence.  The  boy  could  read  the  words 
"My  dear  Bishop"  as  he  followed  the  tracings  of  the 
pen  upside  down. 

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For  some  obscure  reason  he  felt  that  this  prompt 
response  to  sympathy  buried  his  mother  deeper.  It 
forced  home  on  him  that  sense  of  loss  against  which 
he  had  been  fighting  for  the  last  four  days.  He  was 
shocked  to  hear  himself  saying,  in  a  voice  sharp  with 
rising  tears: 

"Papa,  you're  sorry  mama  is  dead,  aren't  you?" 

Fortunately,  the  father  saw  in  the  question  no 
imputation  of  callousness.  He  stretched  out  his 
right  arm,  and  the  boy  slid  round  the  corner  of  the 
desk  to  take  refuge  within  its  embrace. 

"We're  both  sorry,"  the  widower  said,  gently. 
"You  must  always  remember  your  dear  mother,  my 
boy,  and  try  to  do  all  she  ever  told  you." 

"I  will,  papa,"  he  sobbed;  "I  promise  you  I  will." 

He  took  this  engagement  so  seriously  that  when, 
one  day  in  the  autumn,  Freddy  Furnival  said,  sud 
denly,  "I'm  going  to  be  a  doctor;  what  are  you 
going  to  be?"  Charlie  Grace  took  his  courage  in  both 
hands  and  replied,  "I'm  going  to  be  a  minister." 

Though  he  was  aware  of  difficulties  in  making  this 
confession  to  one  who  knew  him  so  intimately  as 
Furny,  he  was  not  prepared  for  the  mingled  laughter 
and  amazement  in  the  latter's  honest  freckled  face, 
nor  for  the  incredulity  of  his  response:  "You!  A 
minister!" 

Charlie  Grace  could  only  toss  his  head,  his  hands 
thrust  into  his  trousers  pockets,  and  say,  defiantly: 
"Well?  What  of  it?" 

"You're  not  good  enough,"  was  the  natural  retort. 

"Well,  I  guess  I  can  be  good  enough." 

"I  guess  you  can't." 

Thus  contradicted,  the  lad  was  silent.  He  pre 
tended  to  be  inspecting  the  long  gaunt  arms  of  the 

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incipient  Brooklyn  Bridge,  reaching  toward  each 
other  from  the  opposite  shores  of  the  East  River, 
but  in  reality  he  was  delving  in  his  mind  for  an 
explanation  of  his  shyness  in  acknowledging  the  pro 
fession  to  which  he  meant  to  give  himself.  In 
Furny's  presence,  at  any  rate,  he  would  rather  have 
said  that  he  wanted  to  be  a  lawyer  or  a  doctor  or  a 
man  of  business.  It  required  a  strong  appeal  to  his 
mother's  memory  to  keep  him  stanch  to  his  pur 
pose,  and  yet  he  wondered  why. 

They  turned  away  from  the  spectacle  of  the  giant 
Bridge  to  take  the  Elevated  back  in  the  direction  of 
Vandiver  Place.  A  trip  on  the  Elevated  was  still 
novel  enough  to  be  an  economical  outing  to  school 
boys  in  search  of  adventure.  Charlie  Grace  re 
verted  to  the  topic  he  had  at  heart  while  they  were 
climbing  the  stairs  into  the  station. 

"Anyhow,  I  don't  have  to  be  good  for  a  long 
time  yet.  You  can't  be  a  minister  till  you're  over 
twenty." 

"That  doesn't  make  any  difference,"  Furny  sniffed. 

"A  doctor  has  to  be  good,  too,"  Charlie  Grace 
argued. 

"But  he  hasn't  got  to  be  better  than  other  people. 
My  old  man's  a  doctor,  so  I  know.  But  if  a  minister 
isn't  better  than  other  people,  what's  the  good  of 
him?" 

"You'll  find  that  out." 

The  assertion  expressed  Charlie  Grace's  defiance 
of  Freddy  Furnival's  opinion.  It  implied  that  he, 
Charlie  Grace,  might  be  wounded  by  that  opinion, 
might  even  suffer  from  it,  but  in  so  far  as  it  was  a 
criticism  on  himself  it  could  only  make  him  the 
more  dogged  in  his  intentions.  It  was  the  kind  of 

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thing  that  put  him  on  his  mettle,  whatever  he  might 
feel  inside. 

This  effect  was  confirmed  when  a  week  or  two 
later  he  walked  home  from  Sunday  -  school  with 
Hattie  Bright.  He  did  this  now  and  then,  partly 
because  he  was  vaguely  aware  that  his  father  dis 
liked  it  without  venturing  to  say  so,  and  partly  for 
the  pleasure  of  the  young  lady's  conversation. 
Freddy  Furnival  indulged  in  the  same  bit  of  gallantry 
in  direct  opposition  to  parental  commands.  To 
both  young  men,  as  to  others  in  Vandiver  Place,  the 
knowledge  that  Miss  Bright  was  regarded  by  their 
elders  as  the  apple  in  Eden  added  zest  to  her  com 
pany.  Not  that  her  society  needed  this  charm  to 
give  it  spice,  for  already,  at  the  age  of  twelve, 
Hattie  Bright,  with  her  demure  manner  and  long, 
soft,  slanting  regard,  was,  in  a  measure,  mistress 
of  the  arts  that  captivate.  No  little  girl  ever  went 
out  of  church  more  properly  nor,  with  her  prayer- 
book  and  hymn-book  in  her  hand,  walked  up  the 
wide  pavement  of  Vandiver  Place  toward  the  turn 
ing  into  the  unattractive  street  in  which  her  mother 
kept  a  boarding-house  with  less  apparent  thought  of 
being  accompanied,  or  even  followed  by  a  glance,  and 
yet  no  poor  child  ever  drew  attention  to  herself  more 
prophetically.  "Now,  Freddy,  dear,  go  right  home," 
Mrs.  Furnival  would  order,  perhaps  with  no  clear 
idea  of  why  she  became  suddenly  so  strict,  while 
Mrs.  Hornblower  would  oblige  Reginald  to  climb 
into  the  barouche  beside  her,  telling  the  coachman 
to  drive  off  in  the  direction  contrary  to  that  which 
the  little  minx  was  taking,  though  Fifth  Avenue  lay 
that  way. 

After  Sunday-school  there  was,  however,  less  sur- 

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veillance,  and  young  gentlemen,  free  of  the  oversight 
of  their  mamas,  would  find  themselves,  in  the  most 
natural  way  in  the  world,  strolling  beside  Hattie 
Bright  as  they  might  stroll  beside  anybody  else. 
On  this  particular  afternoon  she  conversed  genteelly 
with  Charlie  Grace  on  the  respective  merits  of  spell 
ing  and  geography  as  studies  till  they  were  well  out 
of  Vandiver  Place.  The  binding  of  the  copy  of 
The  Dove  in  the  Eagle's  Nest  she  had  taken  from  the 
Sunday-school  library  made  a  spot  of  olive-green 
and  gold  against  the  scarlet  of  her  autumn  dress.  It 
was  quite  without  provocation  that,  shooting  at  him 
a  sidelong  glance  from  her  soft,  mischievous  eyes, 
she  said: 

"/  heard  something  about  you"  The  tone  was 
meant  to  rouse  curiosity. 

"What  is  it?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  tell." 

"That's  mean,"  he  declared. 

"No,  it  isn't.     I  said  I  wouldn't." 

"Then  you  shouldn't  say  anything  about  it." 

"I  can  say  something  about  it  so  long  as  I  don't 
tell  you  what  it  is.  Anyhow,  I'm  going  to." 

The  boy  reflected.  "Who  told  you?"  he  asked,  at 
last. 

The  tip  of  a  teasing  little  tongue  became  visible 
between  two  cherry  lips.  "Shouldn't  you  like  to 
know?" 

"I  do  know.  It  was  Reggie  Hornblower.  /  saw 
him — running  over  and  whispering  something  to 
you  when  Miss  Smedley  wasn't  looking." 

Miss  Bright  tossed  her  head.  "You're  quite 
mistaken.  It  wasn't  him  at  all." 

"Well,  then,  it  was  Furny." 

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"That's  just  like  you.  You  think  everything  has 
to  be  Fumy." 

"Anyhow,"  he  swaggered,  "I  don't  care.  My 
sister  Emma  is  coming  home.  She  may  arrive  any 
day  now.  My  old  man  says  so." 

Miss  Bright  preferred  to  keep  to  the  original 
topic.  She  allowed  some  minutes  to  pass  in  silence 
before  saying: 

"It's  about  what  you're  going  to  be." 

As  though  some  shameful  secret  were  being 
dragged  to  light,  the  boy  felt  himself  reddening  all 
over.  For  the  moment  his  imagination  was  too 
busy  avenging  this  betrayal  on  Furny's  head  to 
allow  of  his  finding  anything  to  say.  Hattie  Bright 
could,  therefore,  continue,  with  the  same  taunting 
display  of  the  tip  of  her  sharp  little  tongue. 

"I  heard  you  were  going  to  be  a  minister." 

The  incongruity  between  any  such  career  and 
Charlie  Grace  seemed  to  get  emphasis  from  the  rich 
color  in  her  cheeks  and  the  roguery  in  her  eyes. 
She  was  the  Scarlet  Woman  in  miniature.  It  re 
quired  no  small  amount  of  moral  courage  to  enable 
the  boy  to  brace  himself  and  say: 

"Well,  so  I  am." 

"You're  not!" 

This  repetition  of  Furny's  incredulity  would  have 
been  harder  to  bear  had  it  not  been  for  the  obstinate 
element  in  the  boy's  character.  "You'll  see,"  he 
replied,  holding  his  head  proudly. 

Hattie  Bright  covered  her  mouth  with  The  Dove  in 
the  Eagle's  Nest  in  order  to  call  attention  to  the  fact 
that  she  was  smothering  her  laughter.  She  controlled 
herself  at  intervals,  only  to  burst  out  with  a  renewed 
"Pf-f!"  of  suppressed  merriment,  bringing  the  book 

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again  into  use,  while  she  charged  him  with  her 
eyes. 

He  walked  along  uneasily.  "I  don't  see  anything 
so  funny  in  it,"  he  protested.  "My  old  man  is  a 
minister,  and  he's  all  right." 

"Pf.fl"  was  the  only  answer,  while  once  more 
The  Dove  in  the  Eagle's  Nest  hid  all  but  the  little 
Scarlet  Woman's  glances. 

On  the  way  homeward  his  heart  burned  within 
him,  not  so  much  from  a  feeling  of  affront  as  because 
his  friends  thought  scorn  of  a  project  dear  to  his 
mama.  While  Hattie  Bright  had  not  made  the 
charge  in  so  many  words,  it  was  obvious  that  she 
thought  him,  as  Freddy  Furnival  had  thought  him, 
"not  good  enough."  He  meditated  a  little  on  the 
standard  of  goodness  required.  He  ran  over  the  list 
of  the  different  clergymen  he  knew,  including  his 
papa.  It  occurred  to  him  that  he  couldn't  have  put 
goodness  pure  and  simple  as  the  leading  charac 
teristic  of  any  one  of  them — unless  he  made  an  except- 
tion  of  Mr.  Legrand.  A  good  many  of  them  came  to 
the  house  in  the  course  of  a  year.  He  knew  them  as 
a  jolly,  kindly  lot  of  men,  who  smoked  a  great  deal 
and  told  amusing  stories  and  enjoyed  them.  Un 
doubtedly  they  were  "good,"  and  yet  with  no  such 
ideal  of  sanctity  as  to  make  him  despair  of  ever 
reaching  it.  Even  his  papa  had  lapses — chiefly  in 
matters  of  temper — from  the  highest  conceptions  of 
merit,  for  which  the  boy  himself  had  all  his  life  been 
accustomed  to  make  allowances.  Mr.  Legrand  was 
different.  He  could  not  have  explained  wherein 
the  difference  lay,  but  he  was  aware  of  a  quality  in 
the  assistant  at  St.  David's  which  gave  him  a 
standing  of  his  own  in  their  little  world.  He  had 

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heard  his  father  speak  of  it,  too,  sometimes  with  a 
touch  of  impatience. 

And  yet  it  was  this  singularity,  whatever  it  con 
sisted  in,  that  emboldened  the  boy  to  bring  his 
difficulties  before  the  tall  young  ecclesiastic. 

"Mr.  Legrand,  do  you  have  to  be  very  good  to  be 
a  clergyman.  I  suppose  you  do." 

They  were  walking  up  Vandiver  Place  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  rectory  late  one  November  afternoon. 
Though  there  was  still  a  dusky  glimmer  in  the 
western  sky,  the  street-lamps  were  lit,  and  a  silvery 
crescent  moon  hung  above  the  spire  of  St.  David's. 
Charlie  Grace  was  on  his  way  home  from  choir 
practice.  The  yearning  refrain  of  a  medieval 
melody  which,  in  view  of  the  approaching  Advent 
season,  he  had  just  been  rehearsing,  kept  humming 
in  his  memory : 

Rejoice!     Rejoice!    Emmanuel 
Shall  come  to  thee,  O  Israel! 

When,  through  the  influence  of  Rufus  Legrand, 
and  somewhat  to  the  irritation  of  the  rector,  St. 
David's  suppressed  its  famous  quartette  in  favor 
of  a  surpliced  choir,  it  had  been  found  necessary  to 
rent  a  small  hall  in  a  neighboring  street  for  the  boys 
to  practise  in.  It  was  from  this  hall  that  the  boy 
was  now  on  his  way  home,  whistling  the  "Veni, 
Emmanuel"  under  his  breath,  when  at  the  turning 
into  Vandiver  Place  he  ran  across  Mr.  Legrand. 

During  the  six  or  seven  years  in  which  the  latter 
had  been  assistant  at  St.  David's  there  had  sprung 
up  between  the  two  the  same  sort  of  matter-of-fact 
intimacy,  on  another  plane,  as  existed  between 
Charlie  Grace  and  Remnant.  They  came  closer 

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together  in  proportion  as  the  boy  grew  up  and 
Legrand  himself,  in  the  rough-and-tumble  of  paro 
chial  life  in  New  York,  lost  something  of  the  spick- 
and-span  habits  acquired  at  Oxford  and  Cuddesdon. 
Even  Charlie  Grace,  catching  sight  of  the  tall,  spare 
figure  in  the  lamplight,  could  discern  in  the  care 
lessly  hanging  clerical  jacket  and  the  battered  round 
felt  hat  a  falling  away  from  former  standards 
of  perfection.  He  knew,  too,  that  Mrs.  Legrand  com 
plained  more  in  earnest  than  in  fun  of  her  husband's 
indifference  to  social  requirements,  of  his  zeal  for 
working  among  the  poor,  and  of  his  dislike  of  making 
calls  in  Fifth  Avenue.  He  had  once  heard  her 
declare  with  tears  in  her  eyes  that,  after  thinking 
she  had  married  not  a  clergyman  but  a  man,  she 
found  she  had  only  got  a  clergyman. 

In  response  to  the  boy  Legrand  said  nothing  for  a 
minute  or  two.  "It  isn't,  in  the  first  place,  a  ques 
tion  of  goodness  at  all,"  he  answered  then.  "No 
one  becomes  a  clergyman  because  he's  good." 

"What  does  he  do  it  for,  then?"  the  lad  asked,  in 
astonishment. 

Legrand  reflected  again.  "  Primarily,  because  he's 
willing  to  be  used  as  an  instrument  in  a  great  cause 
— in  a  large  movement.  Before  anything  else  it's 
a  question  of  willingness." 

"Could  he  be  used  as  an  instrument  in  a  great 
cause  if  he  wasn't  good?" 

"He  couldn't  be  as  good  an  instrument,  of  course; 
but  I  fancy  he  could  be  used.  From  what  we  know 
about  God  we  infer  that  He  can  turn  any  means  to 
account.  Do  you  remember  the  queer  story  of 
Balaam's  ass?" 

The  boy  nodded. 

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"Well,  don't  you  think  that  that  may  be  what 
we're  to  learn  from  it? — that  what  we  consider  a 
very  feeble  and  inferior  thing  can  become  the  medium 
of  God's  power?" 

"And  you  don't  have  to  be  good  to  be  a  minister?" 

"I  must  repeat  what  I  said — that  it's  chiefly  a 
question  of  willingness.  If  any  one  is  eager  to 
serve — a  minister,  you  know,  is  only  a  servant — it 
will  generally  be  found  that  other  things  adjust 
themselves.  The  desire  to  serve  comes  first." 

At  the  rectory  door  they  said  good  night,  and 
Charlie  Grace  went  in.  He  was  quite  clear  in  his 
mind  as  he  said  to  himself:  "That  wouldn't  be 
my  reason — not  the  desire  to  serve — it  wouldn't  be. 
I  should  do  it  because  mama  wanted  me  to.  But 
there  couldn't  be  a  better  reason  than  that." 

Nevertheless,  it  was  a  relief  to  know  that  "good 
ness"  was  no  terrifying  essential.  As  he  hung  up 
his  cap  and  overcoat  and  went  toward  the  kitchen  to 
ask  Julia  what  there  was  to  be  for  supper  he  shrilled 
again  the  medieval  refrain: 

Rejoice!     Rejoice!     Emmanuel 
Shall  come  to  thee,  O  Israel! 

It  was  the  first  time  there  had  been  such  happy 
singing  in  the  house  since  his  mother  died. 


CHAPTER  VI 

OF  his  sister's  visit  to  New  York  only  two 
isolated  details  remained  permanently  in 
Charlie  Grace's  memory. 

He  recalled,  in  the  first  place,  hearing  strange 
voices  in  the  study  on  coming  home  from  school 
one  day  early  in  December.  The  words  that 
caught  his  attention,  as  he  threw  down  his  satchel 
of  books  on  an  old  sofa  in  the  hall,  were: 

"Going  into  the  Church?     How  nice!" 

The  voice  was  noticeably  rich  and  caressing.  He 
decided  to  listen,  as  he  often  did  when  there  were 
callers  in  the  house,  waiting  for  a  hint  to  tell  him 
whether  to  go  in  or  run  away.  Creeping  down  the 
hall,  he  peeped  warily  into  the  room.  His  father 
was  in  his  favorite  arm-chair  near  the  grate,  in  which 
a  coal-fire  was  glowing.  A  short,  plump  lady  sat 
beside  him,  a  hand  laid  familiarly  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair.  Her  back  being  toward  the  door,  the  boy 
got  no  glimpse  of  her  features,  but  without  exposing 
himself  to  view  he  could  look  squarely  into  the  face 
of  a  stocky,  thick-necked  man,  with  a  face  like  that 
of  a  bulldog,  whom  he  knew  from  photographs  to 
be  Osborne  Tomlinson.  He  inferred  that  Sophy 
must  have  been  deposited  at  St.  Margaret's  School 
at  Tubb's  P'erry,  on  the  Hudson,  before  her  parents 
had  entered  New  York. 

"It  was    something   his   dear   mother   had   very 


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much  at  heart,"  the  rector  said,  almost  apologet 
ically. 

"Then  of  course  you  couldn't  think  of  his  doing 
anything  else — of  course." 

The  lady's  tone  implied  that  all  sorts  of  objections 
that  might  have  been  raised  were  thus  overruled. 

"The  West  is  offering  wonderful  opportunities  for 
young  men  just  now,"  said  the  stocky  man,  in  a 
hoarse,  barking  voice.  "Will  do  it  for  some  time 
to  come,  though  it  won't  go  on  forever.  Remark 
able  country  up  in  the  new  regions  of  Canada." 

"I've  looked  at  Butler's  book — The  Great  Lone 
Land,"  the  rector  said,  by  way  of  being  up  to  the 
level  of  the  conversation. 

"Won't  be  a  great  lone  land  very  long.  Not 
many  of  us  are  in  the  secret  yet,  but  those  of  us  who 
are  know  that  the  foundations  of  some  big  fortunes 
will  be  laid  there  during  the  next  twenty  years. 
Very  short-sighted  policy  on  the  part  of  our  govern 
ment  not  to  work  up  a  plan  by  which  we  might  get 
possession  of  that  territory.  Ought  to  do  it,  and  do 
it  mighty  quick.  D'ye  see?  England  doesn't  know 
yet  what  she's  got,  nor  Canada,  either.  It  will  be 
another  generation  before  they  jump  to  it.  If  in  the 
mean  time  we  were  to  put  up  a  claim  and  push  it  hard 
enough  I  believe  in  the  long  run  we'd  make  it  good." 

" There's  such  a  thing  as  international  righteous 
ness,  Osborne." 

There  was  a  short  harsh  laugh.  "Is  there? 
Never  heard  of  it.  At  least,  I've  never  seen  it — nor 
anybody  else." 

"Oh,  Noddy  is  a  regular  bucaneer,"  the  lady  ex 
plained.  "He's  perfectly  Elizabethan,  Noddy  is. 
It's  no  use  saying  he  isn't,  because  he  is.  Three 

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centuries  ago  he  would  have  been  a  Drake  or  a 
Frobisher  instead  of  a  civil  engineer." 

Mr.  Tomlinson  accepted  the  compliment  with 
another  laugh.  "Some  one's  got  to  go  ahead  and 
do  the  pioneering.  If  we  were  all  stay-at-homes,  like 
father  Grace  here,  there'd  never  be  any  discoveries. 
As  it  is,  we've  got  hold  of  a  big  thing.  The  trouble  '11 
be  in  making  people  believe  it.  When  I  say  people, 
I  mean  our  people.  I  want  the  United  States  to  have 
a  hand  in  this  business.  That's  what  I'm  after  in 
New  York.  I  want  to  interest  some  of  our  financial 
bigwigs — men  like  Silas  Hornblower,  for  instance — 
in  the  Trans-Canadian." 

"  But  the  newspapers  say  the  whole  thing  is  going 
to  smash." 

"Not  by  a  long  shot,  father  Grace.  The  news 
papers  be  hanged!  It's  like  many  another  dream  too 
big  for  the  average  imagination  to  take  in;  it  will 
seem  an  impossibility  till  it's  done.  And  it's  going 
to  be  done;  you  can  bet  your  life  on  that." 

The  boy  thrilled  at  the  words.  He  liked  this  big 
way  of  talking.  He  liked,  too,  the  sweeping  outlook 
over  prairies  and  lakes,  over  rivers  and  mountains, 
brought  before  the  mind's  eye  as  his  brother-in-law 
went  on  to  describe  the  newly  explored  lands.  Ex 
plored?  Yes;  they  had  been  explored;  and  yet,  as 
far  as  that  went,  they  still  remained  an  undis 
covered  country  right  at  the  doors  of  the  United 
States.  It  was  hard  to  get  any  one  to  believe  that 
a  region  so  far  in  the  north  could  be  as  fertile  as  the 
Garden  of  Eden.  The  Indians  had  a  name,  now  re 
stricted  to  one  relatively  small  province — Manitoba, 
God's  Meadow — which  gave  quite  the  most  graphic 
conception  of  the  whole  vast,  flowery  plain,  dotted 
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with  lakes  and  drained  by  rivers,  lying  between 
Lake  Superior  and  the  Rockies.  And  when  you 
reached  the  Rockies!  Great  God  Almighty!  Talk 
about  Switzerland!  If  Switzerland  were  the  size 
of  the  German  Empire,  and  painted  with  the  colors  of 
Egypt  and  the  Riviera  and  the  Dolomites  com 
bined,  and  rich  with  the  richness  of  California  and 
France,  then  Switzerland  might  be  comparable  to 
the  country  stretching  from  the  Selkirks  to  the 
Pacific  Ocean.  D'ye  see?  But  people  wouldn't 
believe  it.  There  was  the  rub.  When  he  said 
people  he  meant  people  with  money,  people  who 
could  supply  the  few  millions  so  desperately  needed 
to  push  the  Trans-Canadian  from  coast  to  coast. 
Even  a  few  thousands,  for  the  matter  of  that!  If 
father  Grace  had  a  little  cash  to  spare  it  was  giving 
him  a  tip  that  would  mean  wealth  to  advise  investing 
it  in  a  cause  that  was  one  of  philanthropy  almost 
as  much  as  of  finance.  He,  Tomlinson,  had  banked 
his  all  on  it,  and  some  ten  or  a  dozen  others — 
Scotchmen,  Americans,  Canadians,  but  Scotchmen 
in  particular — who  were  equal  to  the  vision  had  done 
the  same.  It  meant  comparative  poverty  for  a  few 
years,  and  then  .  .  .  ! 

The  boy  thrilled  again.  He  wanted  his  papa  to 
be  rich,  for  his  papa's  own  sake.  He  had  got  the 
idea  of  late  that  money  was  scarcer  than  it  used  to 
be  in  the  rectory,  where  it  had  never  been  abundant. 
He  had  heard  whispers  that  the  income  of  St. 
David's  was  falling  off,  largely  because  of  a  tendency 
on  the  part  of  the  parishioners  to  move  farther 
up-town  and  to  attend  St.  Bartholomew's  or  St. 
Thomas's.  He  knew  there  had  been  arrears  of  late 
in  the  monthly  instalments  of  his  father's  stipend 

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— a  thing  that  had  never  been  known  in  the  old 
days — and  he  gathered  that  there  was  to  be  a 
hurried  but  rather  belated  movement  to  guard 
against  further  calamity  by  raising  an  endowment. 
He  had  even  gone  to  the  pains  of  asking  Remnant 
what  an  endowment  meant — getting  the  information 
that  it  was  a  fund  to  enable  the  rector  and  himself, 
Remnant,  to  snap  their  ringers  at  all  the  bosses  in 
New  York,  and  to  get  their  pay  whether  any  one 
came  to  church  or  not.  Remnant  was  all  for  an 
endowment,  and  so  was  Charlie  Grace,  till  now  that 
his  brother-in-law's  offer  promised  a  more  effective 
relief.  He  was  disappointed,  therefore,  to  hear  his 
father  say,  perhaps  with  some  bitterness: 

"I'm  afraid  you're  looking  to  the  wrong  quarter, 
Osborne.  I've  never  been  able  to  save  more  than  a 
few  hundred  dollars  in  my  life.  It's  been  no  easy 
matter  to  keep  up  a  position  like  mine  on  four 
thousand  dollars  a  year,  which  is  the  highest  point 
my  salary  has  ever  touched.  And  now,  even  that — " 

The  rector  broke  off  with  a  sigh.  The  boy  sighed, 
too.  His  father's  words  confirmed  half-formed 
suspicions  to  which  he  had  never  yielded.  They 
inspired  also  an  immense  desire  to  be  rich  himself, 
to  be  safe  from  the  kind  of  anxiety  he  had  always 
felt  hanging  over  the  household,  to  shelter  his  father 
from  it,  too.  It  was  a  second  disappointment  that 
brother-in-law  Tomlinson  should  not  press  his  point. 
He  gave  in  rather  weakly,  saying  merely: 

"Oh,  well,  I'm  only  telling  you.  It's  a  chance 
that  won't  come  again.  D'ye  see?" 

Charlie  Grace's  second  recollection  was  of  a  few 
words  exchanged  with  Emma  as  he  came  home  with 

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her  from  church  one  Sunday  morning  after  Mr. 
Tomlinson  had  finished  his  business  in  New  York 
and  gone  to  carry  his  message  to  other  cities  of  the 
Union.  Up  to  this  time  Emma  had  stayed  with 
her  husband  at  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel,  but  now  she 
took  up  her  abode  at  the  rectory  with  her  father. 
To  Remnant  and  Julia  she  became  again  Miss  Emma, 
a  personage  they  had  been  accustomed  to  love  and 
fear. 

Remnant  in  particular  was  emphatic  in  his  ad 
miration.  "There,  sonny,"  he  observed  to  Charlie 
Grace,  "is  a  woman  for  you.  Talk  about  Mrs. 
Hornblower — she's  a  boss;  Miss  Emma's  a  general. 
A  man  '11  kick  against  the  one,  when  he'll  be  proud 
to  serve  under  the  other." 

The  boy  himself  acknowledged  by  this  time  the 
justice  of  Remnant's  analysis.  Beginning  with  some 
prejudice  against  Emma,  chiefly  on  his  mother's  be 
half,  he  was  compelled  to  admit  that  she  made  a 
pleasant  addition  to  the  family.  "Seems  as  if  she'd 
always  been  here,"  was  the  confidence  he  made  in 
return  for  Remnant's  enthusiasm. 

Remnant  shook  his  head.  "  Pity  she  couldn't  stay, 
sonny.  St.  David's  'u'd  be  another  kind  o'  church 
with  her  on  deck.  She'd  soon  put  a  stop  to  this  here 
work  of  Parson  Legrand  bringing  in  all  the  tagrag- 
and-bobtail  the  way  he  is.  I  don't  hold  with  Parson 
Legrand  nohow.  I  tell  you,  there's  people  I  have 
to  show  into  seats  on  a  Sunday  that  I  wouldn't  want 
to  sweep  out  with  a  broom.  I'd  take  a  pitchfork  to 
'em.  And  yet  there  I  am,  having  to  look  at  them 
polite  and  make  'em  think  they're  welcome  or  else 
lose  my  job.  Religion  is  a  holler  thing,  sonny.  If 
ever  you're  a  sexton  you'll  find  it  out.  And  I 

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partly  blame  your  pa.  He's  too  good.  He  don't 
put  his  foot  down  severe  enough  on  this  here  Parson 
Legrand  and  make  him  keep  the  church  respectable, 
like  what  it  used  to  be.  Now,  there's  Mrs.  Legrand. 
She's  another  thing.  Me  and  she  has  wept  tears 
together,  like,  to  see  the  low  crowd  he'll  get  in. 
Sometimes  I  think  he  ain't  in  his  proper  senses. 
Well,  anyhow,  we've  got  Miss  Emma  back,  and  I 
hope  she'll  settle  him.  I  call  it  a  pity  to  see  religion 
going  to  pieces  when  there's  been  as  much  money 
put  into  it  as  there  has  here." 

It  was  natural  that  approval  from  such  an  au 
thoritative  quarter  should  have  its  effect  on  Charlie 
Grace.  In  a  very  short  time  he  found  himself  giv 
ing  Emma  her  due.  She,  on  her  part,  treated  him 
with  distinguished  consideration,  taking  an  interest 
in  all  that  concerned  him  and  giving  an  attention  to 
his  private  affairs,  his  boots  and  his  clothes,  the 
brushing  of  his  teeth  and  the  cleaning  of  his  nails, 
such  as  they  had  not  received  since  his  mother  died. 
He  made  no  inward  objection,  therefore,  when,  as 
they  crossed  the  greensward  from  Amiens  Cathedral 
that  Sunday  morning,  Emma  said,  in  her  warm 
contralto: 

"So  you're  going  into  the  Church?" 

He  answered,  timidly,  "I — I  was  thinking  of  it." 

"It's  a  lovely  career,"  Emma  said,  with  gentle 
heartiness.  His  soul  leaped  within  him.  To  be  sup 
ported  by  one  so  strong  would  in  itself  be  strength. 
A  minute  went  by  before  she  said  again:  "It's  a 
lovely  career — for  any  one  who  can  make  the 
sacrifice." 

He  felt  a  sudden  spiritual  drop.  He  knew  what 
she  meant.  Nevertheless,  he  made  bold  to  say: 

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"What  kind  of  sacrifice?" 

"Well,  money  sacrifice,  in  the  first  place.  And, 
of  course,  that  entails  the  sacrifice  of  freedom  and 
power  and  self-respect.  No  one  who's  poor  can  be 
really  self-respecting.  It's  no  use  saying  he  can  be, 
because  he  can't.  His  time  is  fully  taken  up  with 
respecting  those  who  are  rich  and  doing  what  they 
tell  him.  It's  a  beautiful  thing  in  its  way — for  those 
who  have  the  meekness  to  accept  the  role." 

"Lots  of  people  are  poor,"  he  ventured,  "who 
aren't  clergymen  at  all." 

"That's  true.  They're  poor  because  they  can't 
help  it.  But  in  a  good  many  cases  a  clergyman  is 
poor  when  he  could  help  it.  That  is,  he  needn't  have 
been  a  clergyman.  There's  very  little  doubt  that 
if  papa  had  been  a  lawyer  or  a  man  of  business  he 
would  have  been  rich.  Do  you  see?" 

He  pondered.  "If  I  were  a  lawyer  or  a  man  of 
business  should  I  be  rich  ?" 

"I  can't  say  that,  you  know.  But  you'd  have  a 
chance.  A  clergyman  has  no  chance.  That's  all  I 
mean.  He  decides  to  abandon  the  chance  when  he 
chooses  to  be  a  clergyman.  He  takes  a  very  high 
stand — if  he  can  keep  up  to  it." 

That  was  some  comfort,  at  least.  A  high  stand 
was  what  his  mama  would  have  approved  of.  He 
was  sure  of  that. 

"She  wanted  it — mama  did,"  he  faltered. 

"And  that's  a  reason  in  itself,  isn't  it?  That's 
what  I  want  you  to  see.  It  isn't  as  if  you  were 
choosing  this  career  just  because  you  like  it,  is  it? 
In  a  way  it's  chosen  for  you.  Of  course,  it  will  keep 
you  from  doing  what  other  boys  do — and  later  on 
from  doing  what  other  young  men  do.  Clergymen, 

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and  people  who  are  going  to  be  clergymen,  are  always 
so  restricted.  Everybody's  shocked  if  they're  not. 
But  you  wouldn't  mind  all  that,  would  you,  dear? 
You'd  simply  decide  to — to  give  up,  so  to  speak, 
from  the  start.  Once  you'd  really  decided,  it 
wouldn't  be  so  terrible,  would  it?" 

He  tried  to  come  up  to  the  expectations  implied 
in  her  tone  by  saying  "No,"  but  his  tongue  clave 
to  the  roof  of  his  mouth.  He  could  only  appeal 
once  more  to  the  capacity  for  dogged  determination 
he  knew  to  be  within  him.  He  would  have  despised 
himself  less  for  a  downright  meanness  than  for  being 
frightened  away  from  fulfilling  his  mother's  wish  just 
because  it  was  going  to,be  hard.  Itwas  kind  of  Emma 
to  warn  him,  but  he  felt  himself  fortified  in  advance. 

They  had  reached  the  door  of  the  rectory  when 
Emma  made  a  new  move.  "Are  there  never  any 
more  people  in  church  than  there  were  to-day?" 

This  was  something  he  had  never  thought  of  no 
ticing.  He  said,  "I  don't  think  so,"  purely  from 
inadvertence. 

"Then  the  congregation  must  be  falling  off." 

He  would  probably  not  have  thought  of  his  re 
mark  again  if  that  night  at  supper,  after  the  evening 
service,  Emma  hadn't  said  to  her  father: 

"The  congregation  keeps  up  pretty  well,  don't  you 
think?" 

The  rector  fell  into  her  little  trap.  "H'm.  Ye-es. 
Considering." 

"You  mean,  considering — " 

"How  people  are  moving  away.  Do  you  notice 
how  many  houses  in  the  neighborhood  are  to  let? 
Business  creeping  in,  too.  I  must  confess,  however, 
I  don't  dread  business  so  much  as  the  boarding- 

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house.  There  are  two  already  in  Vandiver  Place, 
and  I  hear  the  Pemberton  house  is  likely  to  make  a 
third.  That  to  me  is  perfectly  appalling." 

"I  did  notice,"  Emma  said,  gently,  "that  the 
complexion  of  the  congregation  seemed — well,  rather 
changed." 

"Oh,  that's  Legrand's  work,  and  it  worries  me. 
It's  something  I  hardly  know  what  to  do  about. 
It  isn't  that  the  poor  aren't  welcome  in  God's 
house.  Not  at  all.  Of  course,  you  know  it  couldn't 
be  that.  Only  we've  provided  the  Mission  Chapel 
on  purpose.  I  fail  to  see  what's  to  be  gained  by 
mixing  people  up,  when  all  experience  shows  they 
get  along  better  apart.  He's  very  radical,  Legrand 
is.  It  is  all  the  more  surprising,  too,  when  you 
think  of  the  family  he  comes  from.  I  supposed  that 
in  getting  him  at  St.  David's  we'd  secured  a  man 
who'd — who'd  continue  the  traditions.  But  I'm  dis 
appointed  in  Legrand  that  way.  Not  that  he  isn't 
a  worthy  fellow.  He  is— a  perfect  saint,  of  his  kind 
— but  it's  not  what  I've  tried  to  make  the  ideal  of 
St.  David's." 

"It  seems  to  me  there's  a  great  deal  of  democratic 
feeling  in  the  church  of  late  years." 

"Quite  so,  quite  so.  And  it  doesn't  do.  It's 
what  I've  tried  to  impress  upon  Legrand.  Demo 
cratic  feeling,  I  tell  him,  is  all  very  well,  but  you've 
got  to  take  the  American  people  as  you  find  them; 
and  with  the  American  people  it's  been  proved  over 
and  over  again  that  where  the  poorer  sort  come  in 
the  better  families  will  move  away.  You  may  regret 
it,  but  so  it  is.  There's  a  sense  in  which  they're 
more  aristocratic  than  any  Europeans.  Every  one 
knows  that.  Where  the  lower  classes  come  the 

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upper  classes  go;  it's  a  law  of  the  American  tempera 
ment;    and  that's  what  I  tell  Legrand." 

The  rector  spoke  with  animation.  One  could  see 
it  was  a  subject  on  which  he  had  reflected.  Emma 
was  sufficiently  of  his  opinion  to  say: 

"Since  the  character  of  Vandiver  Place  is  changing 
and  likely  to  change  more,  wouldn't  it  be  a  good 
idea,  father,  when  another  bishopric  is  offered 
you- 

She  stopped,  because  the  rector,  who  was  helping 
himself  to  cold  veal-and-ham  pie,  paused  in  the  act 
and  lifted  his  eyes  on  her  rather  piteously.  The  boy 
was  not  sure  that  he  had  ever  seen  this  particular 
look  in  his  eyes  before.  It  led  him  to  say  to  himself: 
"  Perhaps  papa  thinks  they  won't  offer  him  any  more 
bishoprics." 

It  was  possible  that  Emma  perceived  something 
of  the  same  sort,  for  she  hastened  to  say: 

"Naturally,  after  you've  declined  Southern  Ari 
zona  arid  the  missionary  diocese  of  Mesaba — wasn't 
it — they  may  think  you  don't  want — 

"My  dear,"  the  father  said,  wistfully,  "I'm  sixty- 
three  years  of  age,  and  they  look  for  bishops  now 
among  the  young  and  vigorous.  For  that  sort  of 
thing  I'm" — he  swallowed  hard — "I'm  out  of  the 
running.  I'm  out  of  the  running  for  anything  you 
may  call  promotion.  For  a  rector  of  St.  David's 
there  is  no  promotion  but  a  bishopric — and  now  they 
consider  me  too  old.  I'm  not;  but  it's  the  impres 
sion  that  has  got  about.  No,  my  dear,"  he  added, 
with  lofty  calmness,  "we  will  not  cherish  illusions 
or  vain  hopes.  As  rector  of  St.  David's  I've  lived 
for  twenty-seven  years,  and  as  rector  of  St.  David's 
— now — I  shall  die." 

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Emma  had  the  tact  to  smile,  and  to  say,  briskly, 
"Well,  that's  pretty  good  as  it  is,"  after  which  she 
turned  the  conversation  on  the  school  at  Tubb's 
Ferry. 

But  the  consciousness  of  failure  in  his  father's  tone 
did  not  escape  the  boy.  It  surprised  him,  too,  since 
he  had  always  supposed  that,  whatever  limitations 
his  parent  was  subjected  to,  he  could  command  any 
thing  he  liked  in  the  way  of  churchly  honors.  It 
was  painful  to  think  of  one  so  Olympian  as  the 
victim  of  hopes  blasted  and  ambitions  unfulfilled. 

Charlie  Grace  could  bear  his  own  troubles  and  fight 
his  own  fights,  he  could  endure  to  look  upon  his  soul 
as  a  seething-pot  of  sin  and  a  hotbed  of  incipient 
adolescent  vices,  but  he  hated  to  think  that  his 
papa  couldn't  have  any  bishopric  he  wanted  or 
should  have  to  consider  himself  the  object  of  humilia 
tion  or  ill  luck.  It  roused  his  instincts  of  champion 
ship,  of  protection.  He  wanted  to  be  powerful — to 
be  in  a  position  to  defy  or  command.  As  he  went 
on  munching  his  veal-and-ham  pie,  while  Emma  and 
her  father  talked  of  the  advantages  that  would 
accrue  to  Sophy  from  daily  association  with  Hilda 
Penrhyn,  the  boy  fell  to  wondering  whether  or  not, 
if  he  gave  up  the  idea  of  being  a  clergyman  and 
started  out  frankly  to  make  money,  like  Noddy 
Tomlinson,  he  could  be  of  more  help  to  his  papa. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THIS  question  raised  itself  at  intervals  throughout 
the  next  three  or  four  years,  coming  up  chiefly 
during  Emma's  visits  to  the  rectory.  Osborne's 
efforts  on  behalf  of  the  Trans-Canadian  keeping  him 
on  the  move  over  the  United  States  and  Canada,  with 
frequent  dashes  to  London,  Paris,  or  Berlin,  his  wife 
rarely  had  a  settled  home.  It  was  a  matter  of  con 
venience  to  her,  therefore,  to  spend  a  large  portion  of 
her  time  in  New  York. 

Notwithstanding  Emma's  methods  of  attack 
Charlie  Grace  kept  to  his  resolution.  Not  that  he 
didn't  sometimes  reconsider  it;  but  reconsideration 
never  failed  to  bring  him  to  the  conclusion  that  to 
change  his  intentions  would  be  treason  to  the  memory 
of  his  mama;  and  he  clung  to  that  memory  the  more 
desperately  because  it  tended  to  grow  dim.  He 
found,  too,  another  fortifying  influence — one  with 
which  Emma  herself  had  put  him  in  touch  when  she 
thought  she  was  doing  something  else. 

"So  you're  going  to  be  a  clergyman?  If  I  were  a 
boy  it's  what  I  should  want  to  be,  too." 

This  was  Fanny  Hornblower.  Since  the  days 
when  they  were  little  children  together  Charlie 
Grace  had  met  the  banker's  daughter  face  to  face 
but  rarely.  The  reason  for  this  was  mainly  geo 
graphical,  since  the  Hornblower  residence  was  in 
the  Murray  Hill  district  of  Fifth  Avenue,  the 

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family  continuing  to  attend  St.  David's  from  old 
association. 

It  was  Emma  who  intervened,  to  keep  this 
separation  from  being  more  prolonged.  He  heard 
her  on  one  occasion  gently  chide  her  father  for 
letting  it  begin.  "Considering  the  future,"  she  said, 
"and  the  combinations  wrought  by  mere  proximity, 
it  was  criminal  to  have  neglected  such  an  opportun 
ity."  In  due  time,  therefore,  when  Emma  had  re 
newed  the  old  family  ties  with  Mrs.  Hornblower 
he  found  himself  "taking  tea"  at  the  residence  in 
Fifth  Avenue,  and  leading  out  Miss  Fanny  Horn- 
blower  at  dancing-school  and  juvenile  parties.  She 
was  then  fifteen,  a  year  younger  than  himself.  She 
was  not  pretty,  being  thin  and  bony,  with  a  mere 
wisp  of  very  blond  hair,  pale-blue  eyes,  and  very 
blond  lashes.  Her  charm  lay  in  an  appealing 
gentleness  charged  with  an  eagerness  to  do  every 
thing  for  every  one,  making  no  demands  for  herself. 
Charlie  Grace  would  probably  not  have  thought  of 
her  as  other  than  a  sweet  little  girl,  unusually  plain, 
whom  he  liked  in  a  condescending  way  because  she 
was  generally  a  wall-flower  at  dances,  if  Remnant 
hadn't  said,  jocosely: 

"Glad  to  see  you  makin*  up  to  little  Miss  Horn- 
blower,  sonny.  Go  it;  go  it.  Lots  o'  tin." 

From  this  moment  the  boy  grew  cold  in  his  atten 
tions,  though  he  could  not  have  given  a  reason  for 
the  sudden  change.  None  the  less,  such  scraps  of 
intercourse  as  he  allowed  himself  with  her  he  en 
joyed,  and  the  more  so  when  she  ventured  to  sym 
pathize  with  his  plans. 

"If  I  were  a  boy  it's  what  I  should  want  to  be," 
she  declared,  in  her  gentle  way.  "There's  nothing 

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I  can  think  of  so  really  noble  for  a  man.     It's  what 
I  should  want  to  be  above  all  things." 

Confidences  of  this  sort  might  have  brought  them 
nearer  together  if  Emma  hadn't  said,  too  signifi 
cantly  : 

"I  want  you  to  be  nice  to  Fanny." 

He  bridled  at  once.     "I  am  nice  to  her." 

"I  don't  think  you  are — always." 

"Why  should  I  be  nicer  to  her  than  to  anybody 
else?" 

"Not  nicer,  perhaps,  but  as  nice.  You'll  find  her 
a  useful  acquaintance  when  you're  older." 

He  bounded.  The  formula  was  one  he  had  grown 
to  detest.  "I  don't  choose  my  friends,"  he  said, 
grandly,  "for  the  sake  of  making  use  of  them." 

Emma  became  conciliating.  "You're  quite  right. 
There's  nothing  I  dislike  more  than  calculation. 
It's  such  a  common  thing,  too,  nowadays.  But,  still, 
one  has  to  look  ahead,  don't  you  think?" 

Since  he  couldn't  deny  this  necessity,  Emma  was 
able  to  go  on. 

"You  especially  will  have  to  look  ahead,  Charlie, 
dear,  because  you  have  your  own  way  to  make." 

"I  suppose  I  can  make  it  as  well  as  other  people." 

"Oh,  better — that  is,  better  than  the  majority. 
I'm  quite  sure  of  that — if  you  only  play  your  cards 
well.  You  hold  a  good  hand,"  she  smiled,  "with 
some  of  the  best  trumps." 

He  looked  at  her  with  curiosity.  She  returned 
his  gaze  calmly.  They  happened  to  be  standing  in 
the  front  hall  of  the  rectory,  Emma  at  the  door,  the 
boy  lolling  over  the  banister,  as  he  stood  on  the 
lowest  step  of  the  stairs.  Emma  had  brought  up 
the  topic  just  as  she  was  going  out.  It  was  part  of 

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her  touch-and-go  system.  The  high-crowned  hat 
which  was  the  fashion  of  the  day — something  like 
an  overturned,  elongated  saucepan — gave  height  to 
her  short  figure;  and  in  her  long  sealskin  coat,  her 
hands  composedly  in  her  sealskin  muff,  she  was  the 
very  picture  of  a  self-possessed  little  lady. 

"In  fact,"  she  continued,  using  the  method  of 
instilling  self-confidence  she  had  practised  effectively 
with  Noddy  Tomlinson — "in  fact,  you  may  be  said 
to  hold  the  ace.  You're  very  good-looking.  I  sup 
pose  you  know  that." 

He  did  know  it,  in  a  manner  of  speaking.  That 
is,  he  thought  so  himself,  only  he  was  not  sure  that 
others  would  agree  with  him.  It  was  an  immense 
pleasure  to  be  corroborated  by  so  good  a  judge  as 
Emma,  though  all  he  could  find  to  say  was  a  sheep 
ish  "Oh,  go  on." 

"You  are,"  she  insisted,  "and  that's  an  enormous 
advantage  as  a  start.  It  has  to  be  backed  up,  how 
ever.  You'll  always  be  welcome  wherever  you  go; 
but  you'll  be  more  welcome  if  you  cultivate  your 
opportunities.  That's  all  I  mean.  That's  all  I'm 
thinking  of  in  asking  you  to  be  nice  to  Fanny." 

There  was  more  of  Emma's  philosophy,  of  which  it 
was  not  difficult  to  catch  the  inner  significance.  If 
he  got  on  his  high  horse  about  it  it  was  chiefly  be 
cause  he  could  hear  a  sympathetic  response  to  it 
within  himself.  He  recognized  the  fact  that  the 
things  that  Emma  wanted  he,  too,  wanted  dearly, 
and  yet  could  hardly  bear  to  make  the  admission  to 
his  secret  soul.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  to  his  secret  soul 
he  declared  that  he  despised  them.  He  could  pardon 
them  to  Emma  because  she  was  a  woman,  after  all. 
It  was  natural  to  a  woman  to  care  for  the  gew- 

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gaws  of  life,  and  to  study  the  arts  of  getting  them; 
whereas  the  imputation  of  this  weakness  to  a  man — 
to  a  man  of  sixteen,  especially — was  little  short  of 
an  indignity. 

During  the  next  few  weeks  he  was  colder  than 
before  to  Fanny  Hornblower,  while  he  sought  the 
society,  notably  unremunerative,  of  Hattie  Bright. 

This  young  lady,  at  the  age  of  nearly  seventeen, 
was  even  more  seductive  than  she  had  been  at 
twelve.  Out  of  the  little  fluffy  ball  of  1880  she  had 
shot  up  fair  and  lissom,  like  a  daffodil  from  a  bulb. 
Rather,  perhaps,  it  was  like  a  hyacinth,  since  she 
had  plenty  of  rich  April  tints  in  her  complexion, 
while  her  eyes  laughed  unutterable  things  as  archly 
as  those  of  a  Romney's  Lady  Hamilton.  From  the 
dingy  boarding-house,  dominated  by  the  querulous 
nagging  of  Mrs.  Bright,  she  contrived  to  emerge  as 
fresh  as  springtide,  and  not  less  stylish  than  a 
colored  plate  in  Godey's  Lady's  Book.  To  the 
matrons  of  St.  David's  it  was  no  spirit  of  good  that 
achieved  this  miracle.  To  the  young  men,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  wonder  was  sufficient  to  itself. 

For  Charlie  Grace  she  was  the  embodiment  of  a 
principle  which  all  his  life  was  to  be  a  snare  to  him. 
Naturally  enough,  no  analysis  he  could  make  of  his 
own  proclivities  could  tell  him  that  just  yet.  If  he 
realized  it  at  all,  it  was  by  fits  and  starts  that  came 
suddenly  and  as  suddenly  went — or  else  it  was  in 
troubled  dreams  that  had  little  or  no  counterpart  in 
workaday  life  as  he  knew  it. 

And  yet  it  was  during  these  early  months  of  1885, 
when  the  whole  mystery  of  womanhood  seemed 
summed  up  for  him  in  Hattie  Bright,  that  he  first 
saw  the  girl  who  personified  his  ideals  almost  before 

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he  had  formed  them.  Vaguely,  mistily,  in  unoc 
cupied  moments — in  long  jolting  journeys  on  the 
horse-cars,  or  during  the  enforced  stillness  of  service 
in  church — he  got  glimpses  of  a  woman  who,  to  the 
patient  gentleness  of  Fanny  Hornblower  and  the 
bodily  magnetism  of  Hattie  Bright,  would  add  what 
ever  in  the  way  of  feminine  virtue  was  necessary  to 
unify  these  warring  characteristics.  The  vision  had 
been  a  vision  and  no  more.  It  was  with  a  shock, 
therefore,  that  he  saw  it  brought  before  him  in  the 
flesh  in  the  person  of  Hilda  Penrhyn. 

This  occurrence,  too,  was  due  to  Emma's  solicitude 
for  his  welfare.  It  would  be  good  for  him,  she 
reasoned,  to  know  a  girl  like  Hilda,  who  now,  at  the 
age  of  eighteen,  had  left  Tubb's  Ferry  and  entered 
society.  Knowing  his  oppositions  and  irritabilities, 
Emma  told  him  nothing  of  her  plans  beforehand. 
She  was  content  to  invite  him  to  see  the  opera  of 
"Carmen"  at  a  Saturday  matinee.  Excited  by  the 
movement  and  brilliancy  of  the  incoming  audience, 
as  well  as  by  the  very  shape  and  size  and  smell  of  the 
opera-house  itself,  he  was  twisting  and  turning  in  his 
seat,  paying  no  attention  to  any  one,  when  Emma 
leaned  forward  from  her  place  in  the  row  and  said: 

"Hilda,  I  don't  think  you  know  my  brother 
Charlie." 

"Howd'youdo?" 

"Howd'you  do?" 

He  was  not  aware  that  the  instant  was,  with  those 
of  his  own  birth  and  his  mother's  death,  one  of  the 
three  great  moments  of  his  life  up  to  the  present 
time;  but  he  was  fully  conscious  of  a  desire  to  be 
at  the  feet  of  this  exquisite  being  as  a  worshiper 
or  a  slave.  The  thought  of  love  was  as  far  from 


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his  mind  as  it  was  with  Fanny  Hornblower  or 
Hattie  Bright,  but  the  impulse  to  kneel  and  serve 
was  instinctive.  It  was  all  he  could  think  of  doing. 
He  knew,  of  course,  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as 
love,  and  that  one  day  he  should  come  to  it;  but  he 
knew,  too,  that  he  was  not  ready  for  it  yet.  For 
Hilda  Penrhyn  there  was  nothing  in  his  mind  but 
service.  If  she  had  wanted  a  program  he  would  have 
as  gladly  risked  his  life  to  get  it  as  David's  soldiers  to 
fetch  him  water  from  the  well  at  Bethlehem. 

But  she  had  a  program;  she  had  opera-glasses; 
she  had  everything  a  young  lady  at  a  public  per 
formance  could  require.  Moreover,  during  the 
brief  ceremony  of  introduction  she  had  glanced  at 
him  but  languidly,  turning  away  at  once  to  converse 
with  Sophy,  who  sat  on  her  other  side.  The  boy 
bore  her  no  ill  will  for  that.  It  was  natural  that  a 
beautiful  creature  of  eighteen  who  was  already  going 
to  dinner-parties  should  have  "no  use"  for  a  callow 
lad  two  years  her  junior  and  very  much  out  of  her 
"set."  It  was  no  more  possible  to  resent  her  hau 
teur  than  for  a  Hindu  of  the  water-bearing  caste 
to  complain  of  insolence  from  a  Brahman. 

Fortunately  for  his  immediate  peace  of  mind,  the 
orchestra  struck  up  the  overture,  and  presently 
Minnie  Hauck,  a  rose  between  her  teeth  and  deviltry 
in  her  eyes  and  voice,  came  bounding  on  the  scene. 
But  so  it  happened  that  while  he  followed  the  drama 
on  the  stage  he  also  thrilled  to  a  drama  of  his  own 
creation.  It  was  a  drama  without  incidents,  with 
out  action,  without  words,  and  with  no  dramatis 
persons  but  himself  and  the  silent  girl  beside  him. 
It  played  itself  in  the  passions  of  the  piece,  and 
sang  itself  in  the  gipsy  airs,  and  took  the  tones 
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and  faces  of  each  of  the  performers.  There  was 
cruelty,  lust,  and  caprice  in  it,  lassitude  and  jeal 
ousy,  joy  and  death. 

During  the  entr'actes  he  stopped  playing  it, 
because  as  soon  as  the  first  curtain  went  down  she 
spoke  to  him  and  there  was  always  the  chance  that 
she  might  speak  again. 

"Do  you  like  opera?"  were  her  words. 

She  spoke  in  the  dry,  staccato  tone  which  implies 
concession  to  polite  conventions  but  bridges  no  inch 
of  the  distance  that  separates  two  souls.  He  didn't 
mind  that.  It  was  condescension  enough  that  she 
should  speak  at  all. 

"I  like  this  opera,"  he  said,  trying  to  throw  a  world 
of  meaning  into  the  penultimate  word. 

"I  don't  think  I  do." 

He  was  longing  to  ask  her  why,  but  feared  to  be 
presuming.  Before  he  could  think  of  some  other 
means  of  keeping  up  the  dialogue  she  had  already 
turned  toward  Sophy.  Her  face  being  partially 
averted,  he  took  the  opportunity  to  get  a  clearer  idea 
of  her  appearance.  This  he  could  do  but  surrepti 
tiously,  as  he  feared  that  if  she  looked  round  sud 
denly,  she  might  resent  his  staring  at  her.  His 
impressions,  therefore,  were  in  general  rather  than 
in  detail.  Before  everything  else,  as  he  thought  her 
over  afterward,  she  struck  him  as  complete.  There 
was  nothing  about  her  that  was  not  finished,  per 
fected.  He  could  see  that  she  was  not  tall,  but  that 
she  must  have  the  poise  that  gives  to  some  women 
who  lack  height  a  dignity  of  their  own.  Her  hair, 
worn  in  a  twist  low  on  the  neck,  was  nut-brown  in 
color,  and  he  had  already  noticed  the  ivory  tint  of 
her  skin  when,  in  stolen  glances,  while  the  opera  was 

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going  on,  he  had  caught  the  delicate  incisiveness  of 
her  profile.  He  could  only  guess  at  the  color  of  her 
eyes,  but  he  was  sure  they  must  be  violet-brown. 

On  the  way  home  he  braced  himself  to  speak  of 
her  to  Sophy,  who  was  spending  the  night  at  the 
rectory,  to  go  back  to  Tubb's  Ferry  on  the  following 
afternoon.  He  trusted  to  the  jostling  of  the  crowds 
as  they  walked  down  Broadway  in  the  lamplight 
to  cover  any  confusion  into  which  he  might  be 
betrayed,  as  he  said: 

"So  that's  the  wonderful  Miss  Penrhyn." 

"That's  her."  Sophy's  way  of  speaking  was 
Emma's  despair.  She  looked  up  at  him  sidewise 
from  under  a  fluffy  fringe  of  hair  imperfectly  held 
in  place  by  the  scarf  she  had  bound  round  her  head 
and  neck  on  coming  out  of  the  opera-house.  Over 
her  flimsy  dress  she  wore  a  long  fur  coat  in  which  she 
trudged  heavily.  She  was  a  little  thing.  Every 
thing  about  her  was  small  but  her  mouth  and  her 
eyes,  which  were  made  for  laughter  and  droll  gri 
maces.  "I  wouldn't  be  crazy  about  her,  you  know," 
Sophy  continued.  "She  didn't  take  much  notice  of 
you,  did  she?" 

"I'm  not  crazy  about  her,"  he  declared,  hastily. 
"I  hardly  looked  at  her  at  all." 

"Well,  you  needn't  be  so  touchy.  She  isn't  bad- 
looking." 

"It's  nothing  to  me  whether  she  is  or  not,"  he 
asserted,  loftily. 

"She'd  make  it  something  to  you  if  she  wanted  to. 
But  she  wouldn't  want  to — a  boy  of  your  age.  She'd 
hardly  see  you — not  if  you  were  right  under  her  feet, 
she  wouldn't.  She  had  a  proposal  last  year — ' 

"What  do  I  care?" 


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"I  didn't  say  you  cared,  goosey.  What  differ 
ence  would  it  make  whether  you  cared  or  not? — a 
young  boy  like  you.  You  shouldn't  be  thinking  of 
such  things.  Grandpapa  'u'd  be  mad  if  he  knew  it." 

"Knew  what— for  the  Lord's  sake?" 

"Oh,  well,  we  won't  discuss  it.  She's  got  an  air, 
too,  Hilda  has.  She  doesn't  really  dress  well — all 
the  girls  at  school  said  that — only  she  looks  as  if 
she  did.  I  suppose  you  thought  she  was  awfully 
stylish  this  afternoon?" 

"I  tell  you  I  didn't  look  at  her." 

"Well,  she  wasn't  stylish;  not  a  bit.  She  wore 
that  thing  all  last  winter.  Couldn't  you  see  how  it 
was  cut  in  front?  They've  been  as  poor  as  Job's 
turkey  since  Mr.  Penrhyn  died.  That's  why  they're 
going  abroad." 

At  this  information  the  ground  seemed  to  sway 
beneath  his  footsteps.  More  than  ever  he  wished  he 
could  put  his  fortune  or  his  prowess  at  her  disposal. 
He  mastered  himself  sufficiently  to  say,  with  an  air 
he  tried  to  make  jocular: 

"Going  abroad,  are  they?  What  good  '11  that  do 
them?" 

Sophy  tittered.  "  It  '11  do  them  the  good  that 
perhaps  she'll  get  married." 

"Can't  she  get  married  over  here?" 

"That's  what  7  say;  but  mother  and  Mrs.  Penrhyn 
think  she'll  do  better  in  Europe.  I  suppose  they'll 
get  the  same  idea  about  me.  They'll  want  me  to 
have  a  baron  or  a  count.  Well,  I'd  just  as  soon. 
The  girls  at  school  say  it's  as  easy  as  wink  over 
there.  So  that's  what  Mrs.  Penrhyn  is  going  to  make 
a  try  at  for  Hilda.  If  it  doesn't  succeed  she  can 
bring  her  back,  you  know." 

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"And  what  does  Hilda  say  about  it?" 
"She  doesn't  say  anything  at  all.  That's  not  her 
style — to  say  things.  She's  awfully  provoking  that 
way.  You  never  know  what  she  thinks — and  yet 
she's  always  thinking.  You  can  see  she  is.  But  you 
may  talk  and  talk  and  talk  to  her,  and  in  the  end 
you're  no  wiser  than  you  were  before.  I  hate  that 
in  any  one,  don't  you?  Not  that  it  matters  whether 
you  do  or  not,  because  I  could  see  she  didn't  like 
you." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ON  the  following  evening,  being  Sunday,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Legrand  came  to  supper  at  the  rectory, 
after  the  late  service,  as  they  often  did.  While  on 
such  occasions  the  rector  enjoyed  his  cigar  and 
Legrand  his  pipe  they  took  the  opportunity  to  dis 
cuss  the  incidents  of  the  week  that  had  passed  and 
any  plans  that  might  come  up  for  future  work. 
Supper  ended,  Emma,  when  there,  generally  retired 
to  the  drawing-room  with  Mrs.  Legrand,  the  two  men 
lingering  at  the  table.  Charlie  Grace  would  slip 
into  the  study  to  con  his  lessons  for  the  morrow,  but 
taking  care  to  leave  the  door  of  communication  open. 
By  this  means,  without  eavesdropping,  he  not  in 
frequently  obtained  bits  of  information  valuable  to 
himself.  On  this  particular  evening  he  was  trying 
to  master  the  provisions  of  the  Conventicle  and  Five- 
Mile  Acts,  as  set  forth  in  his  Medieval  and  Modern 
History ,  when  he  heard  his  father  say : 

"The  bishop  writes  me  he  will  come  to  us  on  the 
third  Sunday  after  Easter.  I  hope  we  shall  have  a 
good  confirmation  class.  We  haven't  had  for  several 
years  past.  I  don't  like  to  see  things  falling  off". 
How  many  did  we  have  last  year?  Twenty-four, 
wasn't  it?  We  never  used  to  fall  below  thirty-five 
or  forty." 

For  Charlie  Grace  the  Conventicle  and  Five-Mile 
Acts  ceased  to  have  an  interest.  He  was  sure  that 

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something  was  going  to  happen  to  which  he  had 
long  looked  forward  with  a  kind  of  dread.  He 
would  have  to  be  confirmed.  As  Legrand  said 
nothing,  the  boy  listened  attentively  while  his  father 
went  on: 

"There  are  a  number  of  young  people  who  ought 
to  be  ready  now.  There's  my  boy,  Charlie,  and 
young  Fred  Furnival,  and  Reginald  Hornblower  and 
his  sister  Frances,  and  Harriet  Bright,  and — " 

The  boy  closed  his  book  and  crept  softly  up-stairs 
to  his  room.  He  had  an  odd  feeling  of  being  trapped 
— not  by  his  father,  nor  by  the  ecclesiastical  usages 
of  the  society  in  which  he  had  grown  up,  but  by  life 
itself.  In  spite  of  his  intention  "to  be  a  minister," 
as  his  phrase  was,  he  had  never  relinquished,  in  the 
matter  of  religion,  half-formed  hopes  of  being  able 
to  drift  along  without  declaring  himself  too  definitely 
as  to  either  faith  or  conduct.  Now  it  was  as  though 
he  were  about  to  be  headed  off  and  challenged  to 
take  a  stand.  It  made  him  uneasy;  it  even  alarmed 
him.  Some  inward  force  that  defied  his  control 
objected  to  taking  a  stand;  he  was  far  from  sure  that 
he  had  a  stand  to  take. 

He  kept  silence  on  the  subject,  however,  till  a  few 
days  later,  when  he  found  himself,  according  to 
custom,  walking  home  from  school  with  Furny. 
Having  tired  of  the  game  of  clouting  each  other  with 
their  satchels  full  of  books,  Furny  said,  suddenly: 

"My  old  man  says  I've  got  to  be  confirmed." 

On  the  principle  that  misery  loves  company  this 
information  was  welcome  to  Charlie  Grace.  What 
ever  he  might  be  called  on  to  go  through,  he  should 
have  some  one  to  keep  him  in  countenance.  Never 
theless,  he  contented  himself  with  saying: 

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"And  are  you  going  to  be?" 

Furny  made  a  dash  with  his  satchel  at  a  wandering 
dog,  which,  with  reproachful  eyes,  took  a  wide  cir 
cuit  into  the  street.  "You  bet!  Got  to  be.  Are 
you?" 

"  My  old  man  hasn't  said  anything  to  me  about  it 
yet.  But  I  expect  he  will." 

"Oh,  well,  what's  the  odds?  Everybody  gets  con 
firmed  some  time.  My  old  man  was  confirmed 
when  he  was  only  fourteen.  What  do  they  do  it  for, 
anyhow?" 

"I  do'  know."  Then,  feeling  the  responsibility  of 
his  future  career  already  upon  him,  Charlie  Grace 
added,  "I  suppose  they  do  it  because  it's  right." 

"Yes,  but  what  makes  it  right?  My  old  man 
doesn't  know,  and  he  was  confirmed  when  he  was 
fourteen  years  old.  Mother  just  says  it's  the  proper 
thing  to  do.  Anyhow,  I  don't  care.  Besides,  my 
old  man  says  that  if  I'm  confirmed  I  can  give  up 
botany.  That's  another  thing  I  don't  see  the  sense 
of.  Do  you?" 

Charlie  Grace  admitted  that  he  didn't,  and  so  the 
subject  changed. 

It  lay  on  his  mind,  however,  and  when  in  the 
course  of  the  week  the  inspiration  came  to  lay  it 
before  Rufus  Legrand  he  acted  on  the  impulse. 

"Mr.  Legrand,  what  do  people  have  to  be  con 
firmed  for?" 

He  had  been  sent  by  his  father  into  the  vestry  of 
St.  David's  with  a  note.  Legrand  read  it  as  he 
stood.  In  his  cassock  he  was  very  spare  and  tall. 
His  thin,  regular  features,  handsome  in  an  ascetic 
way,  got  emphasis  from  the  surroundings.  When  he 
had  said  there  was  no  answer  to  the  note  the  boy 

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already  had  his  hand  on  the  door-knob  to  go  away. 
He  had  blurted  out  his  question  as  to  the  necessity 
for  confirmation  before  taking  the  time  to  reflect. 

For  a  minute  or  two  Legrand  was  silent,  trying  to 
follow  the  working  of  the  lad's  mind.  The  latter 
still  stood  with  his  hand  on  the  door-knob,  his  eyes 
rolling  round  on  the  familiar  furnishings  of  the 
vestry — on  the  Gothic  desk  where  the  clergy  wrote 
their  notes,  on  the  portraits  of  the  three  successive 
rectors  of  St.  David's  hanging  above  it,  on  the  row 
of  engraved  or  photographed  heads  of  the  bishops 
of  New  York,  on  an  old  print  of  Vandiver  Place  as  it 
had  been  forty  years  before,  on  the  assistant's  sur 
plice  and  stole,  thrown  temporarily  over  the  back 
of  a  Gothic  chair,  as  he  had  come  into  the  vestry 
from  "taking  evensong." 

"They  don't  have  to  be  confirmed,"  Legrand  said, 
at  last. 

The  boy  felt  this  to  be  begging  the  question.  "I 
know  they  don't  have  to  be  unless  they  want  to, 
but- 

"That's  just  it — unless  they  want  to.  The  action 
must  be  voluntary — it  must  spring  from  a  desire." 

"Well,  I  haven't  got  any  desire." 

Again  the  words  were  out  before  he  knew  it.  If  he 
had  taken  time  to  think  he  would  probably  have 
kept  that  special  bit  of  information  to  himself. 
Legrand  heard  it,  however,  without  sign  of  surprise, 
saying,  merely: 

"Haven't  you?  Then  I  dare  say  you'd  better  not 
be  confirmed." 

"But  papa  wants  me  to." 

"I'll  talk  to  him  about  that  if  you  like." 

This  prompt  way  of  settling  the  question  did  not, 

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however,  appeal  to  Charlie  Grace.  The  matter 
seemed  to  him  to  require  more  circumlocution,  per 
haps  more  argument.  "I  don't  want  not  to  be  con 
firmed,"  he  stammered,  "only — only — I  want  to 
keep  free  to  do  things — I'm — I'm  fond  of  doing." 

"So  you  would  be— except  for  wrong  things." 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause  before  the  boy  said, 
"But  that's  what  I  mean — wrong  things." 

"Wrong  things — such  as — " 

The  boy  reddened.  "Such  as  I've  done — often — 
and  other  things — such  as  I  expect — I  shall  do. 
I  shall  never  be  good,  Mr.  Legrand,"  he  declared, 
with  a  catch  in  his  voice.  "It  isn't  in  me.  I'm  full 
up  of  something  else.  I  guess  if  I  ever  die  I  shall 
go  to  hell." 

Legrand  smiled.  "Isn't  that  traveling  a  little  too 
fast?  I  dare  say  some  of  your  trouble  lies  there. 
You're  not  satisfied  with  thinking  how  bad  you  are, 
but  you  must  go  on  to  imagine  how  much  worse 
you're  going  to  be." 

"  But  when  I  know — 

"Oh  no,  you  don't.  You  don't  know  a  bit  better 
than  I  do.  I  should  advise  you,  however,  not  to  make 
the  thought  father  to  the  wish.  One  can,  you  know." 

The  boy  had  been  so  near  to  tears  that  he  was 
obliged  to  snuffle  and  blow  his  nose.  He  had  a 
vague  expectation,  too,  that  Legrand  would  ask  the 
obvious  question  as  to  how  he  thought  of  entering 
on  his  future  career  if  he  balked  at  its  preliminaries 
now.  He  was  both  disappointed  and  relieved  at 
getting  away  from  the  vestry  without  having  the 
subject  raised. 

And  yet  when  the  third  Sunday  after  Easter 
came  round  he  was  confirmed.  He  was  confirmed 

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for  a  number  of  reasons,  each  one  of  which  seemed 
compulsory.  First  of  all,  there  was  no  way  of 
meeting  his  father  with  the  frankness  he  could  use 
toward  Rufus  Legrand.  Then  he  realized  that  if 
by  refusal  he  escaped  this  year  he  should  be  con 
fronted  by  the  same  situation  a  twelvemonth  later. 
Then,  the  rector's  dismay  at  the  meagerness  of  the 
class  was  such  that  the  boy  resolved  to  step  up  with 
Furny  and  young  Hornblower  and  Hattie  Bright, 
and  some  fifteen  or  sixteen  others,  and  make  one 
more  for  his  father's  sake,  whatever  the  spiritual  con 
sequence.  Lastly,  before  Easter  came  Rufus  Le 
grand  had  gone  away,  leaving  his  parishioner  master 
of  his  acts. 

Charlie  Grace  received  the  first  intimation  of  the 
coming  change  from  the  lips  of  little  Esther  Legrand 
as  he  sat  on  the  sofa  in  her  mother's  drawing-room. 
He  had  been  sent  to  deliver  a  message  from  the 
rector  to  the  assistant,  and  was  waiting  for  Mrs. 
Legrand  to  come  down-stairs  to  receive  it. 

The  little  four-year-old  appeared  shyly  in  the 
doorway,  hugging  a  rag-doll. 

"Hello,  Esther."  The  boy  leaned  forward,  his 
elbows  on  his  knees,  snapping  his  fingers  by  way  of 
greeting.  "Come  here." 

She  looked  at  him  in  silence,  with  big  grave  eyes. 
"Did  you  ever  notice  the  eyes  of  that  Legrand 
young  one?"  he  had  asked  not  long  since  of  Hattie 
Bright. 

"I've  noticed,"  she  replied,  "that  you  can't  tell 
whether  they're  blue  or  black.  Just  when  you  think 
they're  the  one  you'll  see  they're  the  other — and 
then  it  '11  be  the  opposite  way  round.  I  think  it's 
ridic'lous  the  way  Mrs.  Legrand  dresses  her,  don't 

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you?     I  declare  that  woman  has  so  many  airs  she 
just  about  makes  me  sick." 

"I  think  she's  lovely,"  the  boy  asserted,  loyally. 
"She's  pretty,  too." 

"Pretty?  So  is  a  china  doll  pretty.  Whatever 
a  man  like  Mr.  Legrand  could  have  seen  in  her — 

Hattie  was  obliged  to  leave  her  sentence  unfinished, 
for  the  question  had  puzzled  older  heads  than  hers. 
Rather,  it  would  have  puzzled  them  if  life  had  not 
accustomed  them  to  so  many  queer  mysteries  in 
mating  that  the  subject  was  placed  beyond  the  scope 
of  inquiry. 

There  was  nothing  "ridic'lous,"  however,  in  the 
way  little  Esther  Legrand  was  dressed  on  this  par 
ticular  forenoon,  seeing  that  she  wore  a  little  white 
silk  frock,  "smocked  a  Canglaise"  as  Mrs.  Legrand 
was  fond  of  saying,  from  the  wardrobe  of  some 
wealthier  relative.  She  was  acquainted  with  Charlie 
Grace  well  enough  not  to  be  afraid  of  him,  and  yet 
not  so  well  as  to  be  intimate.  In  response  to  his 
invitation  she  advanced  slowly  into  the  room,  coming 
to  a  pause  at  a  safe  distance. 

"My  papa  'u'd  going  fa-a-a'  away,"  she  informed 
him,  with  a  prolonged  coo  on  the  word  "fa"'  to 
indicate  distance. 

He  continued  to  snap  his  fingers  as  at  a  little 
dog.  "Come  here,  Esther,  and  let  me  look  at  your 
eyes." 

"Po5  dolly  sick,"  she  informed  him,  maintaining 
her  ground.  "  She  wamited  all  night." 

"Well,  I'm  a  doctor.     Bring  her  to  me." 

"She  wamited  and  wamited  and  wamited.  My 
papa,"  she  began  again,  more  solemnly,  "'u'd  going 
fa-a-a'  away.  Po'  dolly." 

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With  strong,  light  step  Mrs.  Legrand  came  down 
the  stairs  and  into  the  room. 

"Oh,  Charlie,  I'm  so  sorry  to  keep  you  waiting." 

He  stood  up  to  deliver  the  message  he  was  leaving 
for  Mr.  Legrand.  She,  too,  stood  while  she  listened 
to  it,  her  hands  in  the  pockets  of  a  little  apron  edged 
with  lace.  Except  for  a  slight  fullness  in  the  cheeks 
and  the  merest  hint  of  an  approaching  double  chin 
she  was  as  pretty  as  when  she  appeared  in  Vandiver 
Place  as  a  bride.  Her  rose-petal  complexion  was 
almost  as  fresh  as  ever,  and  she  still  had  the  habit 
of  holding  her  head  to  one  side  with  a  challenging 
little  smile. 

"Yes;  I'm  to  tell  Mr.  Legrand  that  old  Mr.  Piper 
died  this  morning,  and  will  he  kindly  call  at  the  house 
to  make  arrangements  for  the  funeral.  Is  that  it?" 

She  had  so  long  pretended  helplessness  with  regard 
to  parish  affairs  that  she  had  acquired  it  at  last  as  an 
accomplishment. 

"My  papa  'u'd  going  fa-a-a'  away,"  the  little  girl 
said,  solemnly,  again. 

Charlie  Grace  laughed.  "What  does  she  mean? 
She's  said  that  two  or  three  times." 

The  mother  looked  down  proudly.  "What  did 
you  say,  darling?  Say  it  again  to  mama.  There's  a 
love." 

"My  papa  'u'd  going  fa-a-a'  away,"  the  child  said, 
obediently. 

Even  the  mother  was  obliged  to  think  twice  before 
catching  the  little  girl's  drift.  When  she  did  she 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  threw  herself, 
laughing,  into  a  corner  of  the  sofa.  "Oh,  that  child! 
She'll  be  the  death  of  me.  What  do  you  think  she's 
got  hold  of  now?  Do  sit  down,  Charlie.  I  simply 

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must  tell  some  one.  You'll  know  it  in  a  day  or  two, 
anyhow." 

He  seated  himself  in  the  other  corner  of  the  sofa 
while  his  hostess  ran  on.  "We're  going  away. 
She's  heard  us  talking  it  over.  Who'd  have  thought 
that  a  little  creature  like  that  could  have  been 
listening?  Oh,  she's  clever.  Clever  isn't  the  word. 
Well,  we  are.  Mr.  Legrand  made  up  his  mind  last 
night.  He's  going  to  tell  your  father  to-day." 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  the  boy  said,  sincerely. 

"Well,  so  am  I — in  a  way.  But,  you  see,  Mr. 
Legrand  has  had  this  very  good  offer  from  Trenton, 
and  he  doesn't  feel  it  right  to  decline.  You  see,  he 
couldn't  go  on  forever  being  an  assistant — don't  you 
know  he  couldn't? — and  this  will  make  him  his  own 
master.  And  such  a  good  position — one  of  the  most 
exclusive  churches  in  New  Jersey.  If  he'll  only 
keep  it  so.  That's  what  I'm  afraid  of.  You  don't 
know  what  I've  gone  through  here  at  St.  David's— 
to  see  him  throw  away  his  opportunities.  I  feel  it 
on  her  account,"  she  went  on,  with  a  gesture  toward 
the  little  girl.  "We've  no  money;  but  we  have 
position — don't  you  know  we  have? — and  to  fling  it 
away —  It's  doing  her  a  great  wrong,  poor  lamb, 
only  I  can't  make  my  husband  understand  it.  Poor 
darling,"  she  cried,  seizing  the  child  in  her  arms, 
"you  sha'n't  drop  out  if  mama  can  keep  you  in — 
and  she  will  keep  you  in.  That's  all,  Charlie. 
Don't  say  anything  about  it  till  Mr.  Legrand  has 
spoken  to  your  father;  but  I  know  he's  going  to  do 
it  to-day.  Of  course,  I  shall  die  when  I  leave  New 
York;  but  we  must  get  used  to  that,  mustn't  we? 
I  hope  I'm  too  good  a  wife  to  stand  in  my  husband's 
way  when  he  has  this  very  good  chance  to  pick  up 

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again.  And — who  knows  ? — we  may  be  back  in  New 
York  before  you  know  it.  I've  often  thought  that 
if  your  father  was  made  a  bishop — and  of  course  he 
will  be — Mr.  Legrand  would  be  the  very  one  for 
St.  Dav —  But  it's  too  early  to  talk  about  that 
yet.  Only  one  looks  ahead — don't  you  know  one 
does? — and  with  Rufus's  antecedents — and  mine,  I 
may  say,  too — well,  you  can  see  that  I  feel  we're 
only  going  away  temporarily.  But  of  course  I  shall 
die.  I've  never  lived  anywhere  but  in  New  York; 
and  if  it  wasn't  that  I  feel  so  strongly  that  Rufus 
should  have  another  chance — and  profit  perhaps  by 
the  mistakes  he's  made  here  .  .  ." 

Feeling  it  safe  to  speak  in  the  evening,  Charlie 
Grace  said  at  supper: 

"Is  Mr.  Legrand  going  away,  papa?" 

Father  and  son  were  alone,  Emma  having  re 
cently  gone  to  join  her  husband  at  Winnipeg. 
The  rector  raised  his  brows,  taking  on  an  expression 
of  conventional  distress,  before  he  replied : 

"I  think  I  may  say  he  is.     Who  told  you?" 

The  boy  spoke  of  his  talk  with  Mrs.  Legrand. 

"A  good  woman,"  Dr.  Grace  commented;  "some 
what  feather-headed,  but  right  in  the  main.  Le 
grand  has  tried  her — rather  sorely." 

"That's  because  he  works  among  the  poor  and 
wants  to  do  them  good,  isn't  it?" 

The  rector  looked  at  his  son  suspiciously.  "Not 
at  all,"  he  said,  haughtily.  "There's  no  criticism 
to  be  made  of  Legrand's  zeal;  one  is  only  obliged 
to  question  his  discretion." 

The  boy  flushed.  It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life 
that  he  had  ever  felt  moved  to  rebel  against  the 
parochial  view  of  religion.  "I  shouldn't  think,"  he 

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said,  trying  to  speak  as  respectfully  as  indignation 
would  let  him — "I  shouldn't  think  there  was  much 
room  for  discretion  where  the  duties  are  so  plain." 

"That's  because  you  know  so  little  about  it,"  the 
father  said,  sharply.  "When  you're  older  you'll 
see  that  we  must  take  human  nature  as  we  find  it. 
Legrand  is  an  excellent  man — perfectly  apostolic — 
but  he  lacks  judgment.  You're  old  enough  now  to 
allow  of  my  speaking  to  you  plainly;  and  I  will  not 
deny  that,  greatly  as  I  regret  his  going  from  some 
points  of  view — from  some  points  of  view — his  de 
parture  will  not  be  without  a  measure  of  relief  to 
me.  A  worthy,  worthy  fellow,  but  not  suited  to 
St.  David's.  It's  the  more  extraordinary  when  you 
think  of  the  family  he  comes  from." 

The  boy's  heart  grew  hot  within  him.  "I  can 
understand  that  Mrs.  Legrand  should  feel  like  that 
because — well,  because  we  know  what  she  is.  But 
that  you,  papa — " 

The  rector  smiled  tolerantly.  "There's  one  of 
Legrand's  mistakes  not  infrequently  made  by  people 
who  haven't  reflected.  It's  this — that  the  only 
souls  to  be  saved  are  those  of  the  poor.  They 
ignore  the  fact  that  the  rich  and  the  educated  have 
need  of  the  message  of  the  Gospel  as  well  as 
the  worker  in  the  factory  or  the  dweller  in  the 
slums." 

"But  not  as  much — because  they've  got  all  the 
advantages  of  money  and — " 

"We're  not  making  comparisons,"  Dr.  Grace 
interrupted,  with  a  dignified  gesture.  "I'm  only 
saying  that  the  well-to-do  are  in  actual  need  of  the 
message  of  the  Gospel,  and  it  is  to  the  well-to-do 
in  particular  that  St.  David's  mission  has  been  to 

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minister.  That's  a  condition  we  didn't  create?  we 
simply  find  it  so.  And  till  our  good  Legrand  came 
among  us  I  think  we  fulfilled  our  responsibilities 
with  some  success.  Since  then —  Well,  I  need 
hardly  discuss  the  matter.  It  merely  comes  to  this, 
that  while  Legrand  has  been  bringing  people  in  at 
one  end  he's  been  frightening  them  out  at  the  other, 
with  the  result  that  our  attendance  is  falling  off,  our 
income  decreasing,  and  I,  myself,  brought  to  a  state 
of  much  anxiety  of  mind." 

"If  the  rich  go  out  at  one  end  because  the  poor 
come  in  at  the  other,  then,  I  should  think,  they  must 
have  a  pretty  mean  kind  of  religion." 

Once  more  the  rector  smiled  tolerantly.  "We 
must  take  human  nature  as  we  find  it.  Man  is  a 
social  animal,  and  in  no  country  in  the  world  do 
social  conditions  become  the  touchstone  of  conduct 
so  generally  as  here  in  America.  For  this  the  reason 
is  simple  enough  to  a  really  reflecting  mind.  In 
England  and  elsewhere  in  Europe  class  distinctions 
are  so  plainly  drawn  that  one  can  afford  on  occasions 
to  transcend  them.  With  us  it  isn't  so.  With  us 
each  man  has  to  be,  as  it  were,  the  defender  of  his 
own  order — " 

"But  I  thought  there  were  no  class  distinctions 
in  religion." 

"Not  in  religion,  perhaps;  but  in  a  church — that 
is,  in  a  parish — especially  in  an  American  church  or 
an  American  parish — not  to  respect  the  natural  lines 
of  social  cleavage  is  to  induce  confusion." 

Dr.  Grace  rose  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  said 
the  conclusive  word,  and  withdrew  to  the  study. 
The  boy  lingered  at  the  table,  his  first  feeling  of  re 
bellious  irritation  dying  down.  Now  that  his  father 
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was  not  actually  present,  it  was  easier  to  think  he 
might  be  right.  He  tried  conscientiously  to  feel  so; 
but  in  making  the  attempt  he  found  Remnant's 
favorite  aphorism  crossing  his  mind  with  disquieting 
insistence:  "There's  a  lot  of  hollerness  to  religion." 


CHAPTER  IX 

'""THERE'S  a  lot  of  hollerness  to  religion." 

1  Charlie  Grace  said  this  to  himself,  bitterly, 
eighteen  months  later,  after  an  experience  on  behalf 
of  Hattie  Bright.  He  had  met  her  as  she  hurried 
homeward  through  the  twilight  of  a  May  evening. 
He  had  not  seen  her  for  nearly  a  year.  Both  Mrs. 
Bright  and  Hattie  had  dropped  out  of  the  habit  of 
attending  church. 

"  Hel-lo,  Hattie."  He  was  unaffectedly  glad  to  see 
her.  "Where  have  you  been  this  ever  so  long?" 

"Oh,  I'm  doing  dressmaking.  I'm  always  busy. 
I  have  to  work  very  hard.  And  then  on  Sundays 
I'm  tired.  Besides,  I  have  to  help  mother.  Poor 
mother,  she's  been  having  an  awful  time." 

He  noticed  now  that  she  was  not  the  Hattie  of 
their  last  meeting.  Something  had  come  into  her 
face,  and  something  had  gone.  She  was  less  pretty, 
and  more  beautiful.  If  care  had  driven  the  roguery 
from  her  eyes  it  had  given  them  a  look  of  distress  of 
which  the  appeal  was  even  more  seductive.  She  was 
well  dressed,  of  course;  she  would  probably  not  have 
known  how  to  dress  in  any  other  way.  Charlie 
Grace  turned  to  walk  beside  her. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  having  an  awful  time?" 
"Oh,  it's  the  house.     It  hasn't  been  paying  for  a 
long  while,  and  now  we're  terribly  behind.     I  don't 
know  what's  to  become  of  us." 

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"Is  it" — he  hesitated  to  seem  inquisitive — "is  it 
—debt?" 

" Debt?  I  should  think  so.  We  owe  everybody — 
and  now  we  can't  get  any  one  to  trust  us." 

She  walked  rapidly,  as  though  trying  to  get  away 
from  him. 

"What  do  you  do,  then?" 

She  gave  a  short  laugh.  "Do?  We  don't  do. 
What  does  any  one  do  when  there's  not  enough  in 
the  house  to  eat?" 

"Oh,  but  Hattie—" 

"I've  seen  it  coming  for  a  long  time.  It  never 
really  paid.  If  ever  you're  down  on  your  luck,  for 
God's  sake  don't  let  any  one  persuade  you  to  start 
a  boarding-house.  That's  the  last  thing.  And 
mother  was  about  as  well  suited  to  it  as  an  old  hen. 
It  wasn't  so  bad  in  the  days  when  people  wanted  to 
live  in  this  part  of  New  York,  but  now — " 

"  But  what  do  you  do  with  the  boarders,  if  there's 
not  enough  in  the  house  to  eat?  You  were  joking 
when  you  said  that,  weren't  you?" 

"I  wish  I  had  been.  But  the  boarders  don't 
worry  us — for  the  simple  reason  that  we  haven't 
any.  The  last  of  them  went  two  days  ago.  That 
was  old  Miss  Grimes.  You  remember  her,  don't 
you?  She's  been  with  us  since  I  can't  tell  the 
day  when.  Mother  thought  that  whatever  hap 
pened  she'd  stay.  But  she's  gone;  and  I'm  glad  she 
is.  We  can  starve  ourselves  with  a  clear  conscience; 
but  it's  another  thing  to  be  starving  old  Miss 
Grimes." 

"But,  Hattie,  you  must  be  joking." 

"Oh,  very  well.  I'm  joking.  It's  a  great  joke 
to  have  the  butcher,  and  the  grocer,  and  the  fishman, 

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and  the  iceman,  all  tell  you  they  can't  supply  you 
any  more — and  the  landlord  say  that  if  you'll  only 
clear  out  without  giving  trouble  he'll  not  bother  you 
about  the  arrears  of  rent.  That's  perfectly  scream 
ing,  that  joke  is.  But  there's  a  good  side  to  it,  too. 
None  of  them  will  worry  us  about  the  past  if  we'll 
only  go — and  not  eat  anything  or  drink  anything  or 
live  anywhere  any  more.  It's  like  what  they  call 
a  general  amnesty,  isn't  it? — only  an  amnesty  on 
condition  that  you  get  off  the  earth." 

The  noise  of  the  Elevated  under  which  they  were 
passing  kept  them  from  saying  more  for  a  minute 
or  two.  Charlie  Grace  was  thinking  hard.  "How 
much  do  you  owe?"  he  asked,  when  they  reached  the 
pavement  on  the  other  side. 

She  made  a  sound  of  impatience.  "PfF!  What's 
the  use  of  counting  up?  We  owe  every  one.  Isn't 
that  enough  ?" 

"Would  it  be  as  much  as  a  thousand  dollars?" 

She  considered.  "N-no;  not  as  much  as  that. 
It  might  be  five  hundred,  though." 

"  Five  hundred  isn't  such  a  lot — not  when  it  comes 
to  debts." 

"It's  a  lot  when  you  couldn't  raise  fifty — not  if 
your  life  depended  on  it." 

"If  you  left  your  present  house,"  he  asked,  after 
more  thinking,  "where  would  you  go?" 

"God  only  knows.  I  don't.  I  suppose  there'd 
be  some  place  for  us,  but  I  can't  think  where.  I 
get  nine  a  week,  and  mother  wouldn't  have  any 
thing.  There  are  probably  dog-holes  in  New  York 
where  nine  a  week  will  take  care  of  two  women,  but 
I  haven't  looked  for  them  yet." 

"Oh,  but  you  can't  be  left  like  that." 

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"My  dear  boy,  we  are  left  like  that.  What's  the 
use  of  talking." 

"Haven't  you  any  relations? — any  friends?" 

"We've  no  friends,  but  we  have  a  relation — one — 
my  father's  brother.  He's  an  old  broken-down 
doctor,  who  was  once  in  jail  for  something  awful — 
I  don't  know  what.  We  have  nothing  to  do  with 
him,  except  that  he  sometimes  comes  round  to  the 
kitchen  for  a  meal.  My  mother's  family  are  farming 
people  in  Prince  Edward  Island,  up  in  the  Gulf  of 
St.  Lawrence.  They  can't  help  us.  We  should 
never  even  hear  of  them  if  the  Hornblowers  didn't 
go  there  for  part  of  the  summer.  It  agrees  with 
Mrs.  Hornblower.  They  see  them,  and  Fanny  tells 
me.  She's  real  nice,  Fanny  is — real  sweet.  She 
often  talks  of  the  time  we  were  confirmed  together. 
We  were  side  by  side.  I  thought  they  dressed  her 
rather  mean,  considering  their  money.  Reggie's 
fast,  don't  you  think?  I  wish  he  wouldn't  come 
teasing  after  me  the  way  he  does.  What  do  you 
suppose  he  wants?  I'm  sure  I  don't  give  him  any 
encouragement — not  me." 

That  night,  as  he  was  leaving  the  study  to  go  to 
bed,  Charlie  Grace  said: 

"Father,  did  you  know  Mrs.  Bright  was  very  hard 
up?  She  has  no  more  boarders,  and  they  haven't 
enough  in  the  house  to  eat." 

The  rector  raised  his  head  from  the  letter  he  was 
writing  and  surveyed  his  son. 

"Who  told  you?"  he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"Hattie;   I  met  her  in  the  street — " 

"You  know  I've  never  liked  that  intimacy.  It 
doesn't  strike  me  as  seemly  that  a  young  man  in  your 
position — " 

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"There's  no  question  of  anything  like  that,  father. 
But  it's  true,  what  I'm  telling  you.  They've  no 
boarders;  the  landlord  has  given  them  notice  to  quit; 
and  they're  literally  in  want  of  food.  Hattie  is  dress 
making.  She  gets  nine  dollars  a  week;  but  what's 
that- 

"I've  always  felt  that  things  were  on  a  precarious 
footing  there.  I've  advised  Mrs.  Bright  against  go 
ing  on  with  that  house  time  and  again." 

"I  suppose  she  couldn't  do  anything  else.  It  was 
her  plant.  She'd  invested  her  all  in  it,  and  couldn't 
pull  out.  I  think  we  ought  to  do  something  to  help 
her  to  keep  in — or  to  make  a  fresh  start  somewhere 
else." 

The  rector  raised  his  brows,  though  his  eyes  seemed 
to  be  contemplating  the  desk  or  the  floor.  "We? 
Who?" 

"The  church  people — where  Mrs.  Bright  has  al 
ways  attended." 

"What  do  you  propose?" 

"They  owe  about  five  hundred  dollars.  It  ought 
not  to  be  hard  to  raise  that  much — among  us  all." 

"Perhaps  it  ought  not  to  be;  it  only  would.  Mrs. 
Bright  hasn't  made  herself  a  favorite  during  the 
years  she's  been  a  parishioner  at  St.  David's." 

"But  what's  that  got  to  do  with  it — whether  she's 
a  favorite  or  not — when  she's  in  trouble?" 

"  It  wouldn't  have  anything  if  it  weren't  for  human 
nature;  and,  unfortunately,  you've  got  to  take  hu 
man  nature  as  you  find  it.  Mrs.  Bright  has  made 
herself  unpopular,  and  I  fear  she  will  be  made  to 
suffer  for  that  mischance.  I  fear  it.  I  hardly  know 
to  whom  I  should  dare  apply — " 

"I  do." 

in 


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Dr.  Grace  looked  up  at  his  son  in  surprise  at  the 
tone  of  assurance.  Of  late  years  a  tone  of  assurance 
in  the  rectory  had  been  rare.  It  was  perhaps  for 
this  reason  that  he  regarded  the  lad  with  a  new 
interest,  that  he  saw  him  in  a  new  light.  Possibly 
he  had  not  till  this  evening  taken  in  the  fact  that  he 
was  nearly  eighteen  years  of  age  and  six  feet  tall. 
He  could  hold  his  head  proudly,  too,  the  chin 
thrust  upward  defiantly. 

"I  couldn't  help  in  the  matter,"  the  father  warned 
him.  "I  shall  have  all  I  can  do  to  put  you  through 
college  when  you  enter  Harvard  in  the  autumn.  I 
can  manage  it;  but  we  shall  have  to  pinch  until 
you're  earning  something  for  yourself.  I  may  as 
well  tell  you  now  what  your  grandfather  said  the 
last  time  he  was  here  from  Horsehair  Hill.  There'll 
be  a  little  money  coming  to  you  from  him — at  his 
death.  It  won't  be  more  than  four  or  five  thousand 
dollars;  but  I'm  glad  to  know  you'll  have  even  that 
as  a  nest-egg.  My  expenses  have  been  such  that 
I've  never  been  able  to  save  anything  to  speak  of, 
and  so — 

The  young  man  flushed.  "I  know  that,  father," 
he  said,  hastily;  "and  if  ever  this  money  comes  to 
me  from  grandpa  I  shall  want  you  to  take  it  in  re 
turn  for  all — " 

"There'll  be  no  question  of  that,  my  boy.  I  think 
I  may  say  without  undue  confidence  that  at  St. 
David's  I'm  provided  for  during  such  few  years  as 
may  remain  to  me.  I  only  want  you  to  understand 
that  in  this  affair  of  Mrs.  Bright  I  shall  be  unable 
to- 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  you,  father.  But  I  should 
think  we  might  apply  to  Mr.  Hornblower,  and  Miss 

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Smedley,  and  Dr.  Furnival,  and  perhaps  one  or 
two  others.  They'd  never  miss  it." 

"Very  well;  if  you  choose  to  ask  them.  I  don't 
say  'No'  to  it,  though  I  shall  be  surprised  if  you 
get  the  money.  Mrs.  Bright  has  not  made  herself 
a  favorite.  I  regret  to  say  it,  but  so  it  is." 

No  later  than  the  following  afternoon  Charlie 
Grace  was  admitted  into  the  private  office  of  Silas 
Hornblower,  Esquire,  of  the  firm  of  Weed  &  Horn- 
blower,  bankers  and  brokers,  in  Broad  Street.  His 
reception  was  distinctly  cordial. 

"Well,  well,  Charlie?  This  is  quite  an  unexpected 
pleasure.  You  don't  often  tear  yourself  away  from 
your  books,  do  you?  How  is  your  father?  What 
can  I  do  for  you?  Will  you  sit  down?  Well,  well!" 

Mr.  Hornblower  rubbed  his  hands.  His  tone 
would  have  been  more  genial  had  the  voice  not  been 
thin  and  harsh.  The  features,  too,  were  thin  and 
harsh.  Thin  and  harsh  were  the  lines  of  the  body 
under  the  gray  "cutaway"  coat.  Gray  was  Mr. 
Hornblower's  predominating  note.  His  complexion 
was  gray;  his  hair  was  gray;  and  meager  gray  side- 
whiskers,  clipped  close  to  the  skin,  adorned  the  ferret- 
like  face. 

It  was  not  till  he  had  actually  sat  down  and  begun 
his  tale  that  Charlie  Grace  realized  the  difficulty  of 
asking  for  money.  Up  to  this  minute  he  supposed 
he  should  only  have  to  state  the  case  for  Mrs.  Bright 
to  see  her  fellow-parishioner  write  a  check.  It  was 
inconceivable  that  she  should  be  allowed  to  starve, 
or  to  be  turned  out  of  house  and  home,  when  a 
scratch  of  the  pen  would  save  her.  Charlie  Grace 
had  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing.  It  began  to 
seem  a  possibility  only  in  proportion  as  he  saw  the 


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thin,  harsh  smile  fade  from  Mr.  Hornblower's  face 
to  be  followed  by  a  look  as  wooden  and  lifeless  as  a 
mask — the  look  of  the  rich  man  when  he  is  being 
asked  for  money.  He  had  never  seen  anything 
to  resemble  it  but  the  stoniness  of  death.  Its 
immediate  effect  was  to  make  the  story  more  dif 
ficult  in  the  telling. 

"You  see,  sir,  she's  always  had  a  hard  time — and 
she's  come  to  our  church  for  so  many  years — and 
now  they  have  no  boarders — and  so  I  knew  if  I  came 
to  you — " 

Perhaps  as  he  stumbled  along  the  banker  took 
pity  on  him,  for  he  broke  in  by  saying: 

"Now,  Charlie,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  straight  off 
that  you're  wasting  my  time  and  your  own,  too." 

The  boy  shot  out  of  his  seat.  At  this  abrupt 
termination  to  the  interview  he  grew  crimson.  He 
was  still  crimson  when  he  found  himself  in  Broad 
Street.  He  tingled  all  over.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
been  struck.  It  took  some  minutes  of  tramping 
along  blindly  into  Wall  Street,  and  then  along 
Broadway  toward  the  City  Hall,  to  realize  that  he 
had  asked  help  for  a  poor  starving  widow  from  a 
rich,  generous,  Christian  man,  and  had  been  re 
fused.  He  knew,  of  course,  that  rich  men  were  pes 
tered  to  death,  as  the  saying  went,  with  requests  for 
money,  but  in  this  case  the  circumstances  were 
peculiar.  What  did  St.  David's  stand  for?  What 
did  any  church  stand  for?  Surely  if  poverty  were 
ever  entitled  to  relief  it  was  such  poverty  as  Mrs. 
Bright's  at  the  hands  of  wealthy  brethren  in  the 
faith  like  most  of  the  attendants  at  St.  David's. 

He  was  dashed  but  not  discouraged.  By  the  time 
he  had  made  his  way  back  to  Vandiver  Place  he  had 

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accepted  this  preliminary  defeat  and  taken  comfort 
to  himself  by  saying: 

"I  always  knew  he  was  an  old  hypocrite — an  old 
brute." 

He  was  not  surprised  to  find  Miss  Smedley  really 
sympathetic.  He  knew  she  was  at  home  because 
he  saw  her  reading  at  the  window  as  he  ran  up  the 
brownstone  steps. 

He  never  entered  her  drawing-room  without  an 
awe  that  dated  back  to  his  childhood.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  the  elaborate  gilt  furniture  covered  in  purple 
damask  would  have  awed  any  one.  On  the  mantel 
piece  an  ormolu  work  of  art,  showing  a  lady  drooped 
in  an  uneasy  attitude  over  a  circular  timepiece,  caught 
the  eye  with  a  sense  of  relief  because  it  was  not 
purple,  the  same  being  true  of  the  ormolu  candle 
sticks  with  cut-glass  pendants  which  flanked  it. 

"Poor  things!  Poor  things!"  Miss  Smedley 
murmured,  encouragingly,  as  he  stumbled  through 
the  tale  for  the  second  time.  "I  shall  certainly  help. 
How  did  you  come  to  know  about  it?" 

He  told  of  his  meeting  with  Hattie. 

"Well,  it  isn't  for  me  to  say  anything  against  the 
child,"  Miss  Smedley  said,  kindly.  "There  are 
others  to  do  that.  All  the  same,  any  one  can  see." 

She  moved  her  head  from  side  to  side  as  though 
sniffing  a  bad  odor.  Her  dress  was  a  long  loosely 
fitting  robe  of  dove-colored  stuff.  She  affected  the 
loosely  fitting  possibly  to  modify  the  fact  that  her 
figure  suggested  a  lot  of  carelessly  adjusted  odds  and 
ends  that  seemed  to  "chasser,"  as  dancing-teachers 
said  in  those  days,  when  she  meant  to  walk,  and 
were  never  at  ease  in  sitting.  As  she  shifted  rest 
lessly  in  her  seat  a  mauve  shawl  that  lay  in  her  lap 


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slipped  to  the  floor.     Charlie  Grace  darted  forward 
to  pick  it  up. 

"She's  doing  dressmaking  now,"  he  stated,  while 
he  performed  this  act  of  politeness. 

"Oh,  she  won't  do  that  long.  You  needn't  tell 
me.  Hattie  Bright  '11  find  something  more  to  her 
taste  than  dressmaking,  or  I  don't  know  her.  Not 
that  I  want  to  say  anything  against  the  child. 
There  are  others  to  do  that.  I  had  her  in  my 
class  in  Sunday-school  for  four  years,  and  she's  a 
puss.  That  I  can  tell  you.  I  never  liked  the 
mother — that  I  will  say.  She  always  dressed  the 
child  out  of  her  station.  I've  seen  Hattie  Bright 
come  to  Sunday-school  wearing  the  most  ridiculous 
things  for  a  girl  of  her  class.  Fanny  Hornblower 
hadn't  the  like — I  can  tell  you  that.  And  now 
what  has  it  all  come  to?  To  this.  Give  me  that 
footstool.  Well,  I'll  help,"  she  continued,  as  he 
placed  the  footstool  under  her  feet.  "I'll  help, 
because  it's  you,  Charlie.  I'm  glad  to  see  you  start 
ing  out  so  early  on  your  career  of  mercy." 

"Oh,  but  that's  not  the  reason  I  want  to  raise  the 
money,  Miss  Smedley,"  he  said,  flushing  at  the  words 
"career  of  mercy"  as  if  with  shame.  "I'm  doing 
it  because  I  like  them — and  I'm  sorry  for  them — " 

"I'm  not  surprised  at  that,  not  a  bit.  They're 
just  the  kind  of  women  whose  troubles  appeal  to 
men — whether  young  or  old.  They're  pusses.  That 
I  can  tell  you.  As  for  Hattie — well,  I  won't  say 
anything  against  her.  It's  the  sort  of  thing  I 
always  leave  people  to  find  out  for  themselves.  If 
you  weren't  going  to  be  a  clergyman  I  should  feel 
it  my  duty  to  warn  you.  As  it  is,  I  must  help. 
How  much  did  you  say  you  wanted?" 

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It  occurred  to  him  that  if  she  was  going  to  be 
generous  he  might  as  well  be  daring.  "Five  hun 
dred  dollars  would  pay  what  they  owe,  but  it 
wouldn't  leave  them  anything  over." 

"Anything  over?  Why  should  it,  indeed?  It  seems 
to  me  we're  doing  a  good  deal  as  it  is.  No  one 
would  do  it  for  me.  That  I  can  tell  you.  Leave 
them  anything  over?  If  it  did  they'd  spend  it  on 
dress  or  going  to  a  play.  Oh,  I  know  them.  Hattie's 
a  puss — a  pretty  puss,  I  admit — but  all  the  worse  for 
that.  Five  hundred,  you  said?" 

With  her  curious  sidelong  gait  she  passed  into 
the  library,  separated  by  heavy  purple  portieres 
from  the  room  in  which  they  had  been  sitting. 
Her  shawl  falling  to  the  floor  as  she  proceeded,  he 
went  after  her  and  picked  it  up.  Holding  it  re 
spectfully,  he  watched  her  from  a  distance  as,  seated 
at  a  handsome  library  desk,  she  took  out  her  check 
book  and  began  to  write.  It  was  a  large  flat  book 
with  several  blanks  on  a  page,  suggesting  opulence 
and  a  sense  of  power. 

"There,"  she  said,  blotting  her  signature  and  de 
taching  the  check  carefully.  "There;  and  much 
good  may  it  do  them." 

The  strip  of  pink  paper  being  folded,  he  thought 
it  good  manners  not  to  look  at  it  in  the  lady's  pres 
ence.  He  wondered  if  she  had  given  him  the  whole 
of  the  five  hundred  or  only  the  half.  From  her 
smile  and  the  fact  that  she  was  known  to  be  gener 
ous  he  felt  justified  in  hoping  he  had  got  it  all. 

"There,  there;  that  '11  do,"  she  said,  impatiently, 
in  response  to  the  profuseness  of  his  thanks.  "Of 
course  I  must  help.  I  always  do  when  money  is 
wanted  at  St.  David's — and  goodness  knows  the 

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calls  come  often  enough  nowadays.  I  can't  imagine 
where  all  the  money's  gone  that  used  to  be  in  the 
church.  Well,  good-by.  Tell  your  father  I  never 
expect  to  see  him  again.  That's  a  joke,  of  course. 
I'm  not  the  one  to  complain  about  lack  of  attentions. 
I  only  wish  every  one  was  like  me.  Most  people 
think  the  rector  of  a  church  has  nothing  to  do  but 
call  on  them.  When  I  see  your  father  I  want  to 
tell  him  what  old  Mrs.  Pemberton  gave  as  her 
excuse  for  leaving  St.  David's.  He'll  never  get  over 
it.  But  it  '11  put  him  on  his  guard.  That  I  can 
tell  you." 

He  dared  not  look  at  the  check  till  he  was  out  of 
sight  of  Miss  Smedley's  windows.  It  was  for  fifty 
dollars. 

It  took  him  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  to  readjust 
his  point  of  view  and  to  see  that  this  was  as  much 
as  he  had  a  right  to  expect  Miss  Smedley  to  give. 
He  couldn't  call  her  mean,  as  his  first  impulse  was 
to  do.  On  the  contrary,  she  had  made  what  any 
one  would  call  a  handsome  contribution,  and  it  was 
only  reasonable  to  look  to  others  to  do  the  rest. 

With  this  conviction,  and  spirits  considerably 
dampened,  he  went  to  see  Mrs.  Furnival  on  the 
following  afternoon.  He  protected  himself  against 
further  disillusioning  by  saying  in  advance  that 
if  she  gave  him  another  fifty  he  would  be  content. 

Mrs.  Furnival  was  intensely  interested.  She  was 
a  pretty  little  woman,  always  fashionably  dressed, 
commonly  reported  to  be  drowning  marital  sorrows 
by  going  a  great  deal  into  society.  It  was  said 
that  she  knew  more  people  than  any  one  in  New 
York  because  she  "had  the  art  of  giving  herself  to 
her  friends."  She  gave  herself  now  to  Charlie 

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Grace,  sitting  with  hands  clasped  in  her  lap  and 
eyes  gazing  earnestly  into  his. 

"Dear  Charlie,  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  I  ad 
mire  you.  Just  to  think  of  you  taking  all  this 
trouble  for  people  you  hardly  know.  You  do  hardly 
know  them,  don't  you?  Oh  yes,  I  remember  them; 
though  of  course  I  should  only  consider  them  church 
acquaintances — if  that.  In  church  one  has  to  meet 
people  you  couldn't  mingle  with  outside.  I  con 
sider  that  only  right.  I  consider  that  it  would  be 
snobbish  to  make  distinctions  there.  Some  people 
do,  I  know,  but  I  consider  it  does  a  great  deal  of 
harm  to  religion.  Don't  you?  I  used  to  make  it 
a  point  to  go  and  sit  beside  this  Mrs.  Bright  when 
ever  she  came  to  our  meetings.  I  consider  that  we 
ought  to  do  everything  we  can  to  make  people  like 
that  feel  welcome.  Don't  you?  I  must  say  she 
sometimes  struck  me  as  presuming.  That's  the 
difficulty  with  that  class.  They  don't  know  where 
to  draw  the  line.  Not  that  that  should  weigh  with 
us  now,  when  she's  in  trouble.  Poor  thing;  you 
don't  know  how  my  heart  bleeds  for  her.  I'll  tell 
you  what  I'll  do,  Charlie.  I'll  give  you  five  dollars 
now,  and  if  you  find  you  can't  make  up  the  balance 
I'll  give  you  five  more.  I'd  make  it  ten  at  once  if 
we  hadn't  so  many  calls  on  us.  But  five  now  I 
certainly  will  give.  And  I  can't  tell  you  how  much 
I  admire  you  for  taking  all  this  trouble  about  it. 
If  there  were  only  more  like  you.  But  then,  you're 
going  to  be  a  clergyman,  anyhow.  That  was  settled 
years  ago,  when  you  put  the  wig  into  the  missionary 
box.  What  a  boy  you  were !" 

It  was  once  more  a  question  of  readjustment. 
At  the  end  of  a  week,  when  his  father  asked  him  how 

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he  was  getting  on,  he  was  able  to  state  that  the  fruit 
of  his  efforts  was  eighty  dollars. 

The  rector  lifted  his  brows.  "Indeed?  I  hardly 
expected  you  to  get  so  much." 

"But  why?" 

With  his  lowered  lids  and  tolerant  half- smile 
Dr.  Grace's  expression  was  one  of  sphynxlike 
benignity.  "You'd  have  to  go  somewhat  deep  into 
the  philanthropic  temperament  to  explain  that. 
I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  we're  not  a  people 
easily  touched  by  individual  distress.  We  like  our 
good  deeds  to  be  institutional,  and  in  the  mass. 
As  with  so  many  other  things,  so  with  that — we're 
attracted  by  size.  It's  to  the  overgrown  university, 
or  to  the  art-museum  already  teemingly  rich,  that 
our  people  like  to  give  their  benefactions,  not  be 
cause  they're  convinced  they  do  the  most  good,  but 
because  they  want  to  put  their  money  where  other 
people  are  putting  theirs.  If  you'd  gone  begging 
for  some  big  institution  to  which  this  five  hundred 
dollars  would  have  been  as  a  drop  in  the  sea  you'd 
have  had  it  in  no  time.  But  when  it's  for  an  un 
happy,  obscure  woman,  whose  life  depends  on  it,  it's 
ten  to  one  you  can't  get  it.  It's  the  kind  of  need 
that  doesn't  appeal  to  our  generosity.  At  least, 
that's  been  my  experience." 

"But  why?"  the  young  man  demanded  again. 
"  Christ  didn't  work  through  institutions.  He  helped 
the  man.  Institutions,  even  the  best  of  them,  are 
surely  second  to  the  individual." 

Dr.  Grace  shrugged  his  shoulders.  With  his  hands 
under  his  long  black  coat-tails  he  flapped  the  latter 
before  the  empty  study  grate.  "My  dear  boy, 
when  you're  older  you  won't  try  to  get  at  the 

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philanthropic  temperament  through  reasons.  It's 
like  the  proverbial  woman — when  it  will  it  will  and 
when  it  won't  it  won't.  You've  got  to  take  it  as 
you  find  it.  Having  had  a  long  experience  in  doing 
that,  I  was  convinced  beforehand  that  you  couldn't 
raise  the  money  for  Mrs.  Bright." 

It  may  have  been  the  raw  irritation  of  personal 
failure  or  it  may  have  been  indignation  of  a  deeper 
kind  that  caused  Charlie  Grace,  as  he  stood  with 
one  hand  on  his  hip  and  the  other  grasping  the 
back  of  a  chair,  to  tremble  with  anger.  "Then  what 
they  call  their  Christianity  isn't  Christianity  at  all?" 

"That's  a  good  deal  to  say.  It's  certainly  Chris 
tianity  of  a  rudimentary  kind;  but,  then,  Chris 
tianity  of  a  rudimentary  kind  is  all  the  world  as  yet 
has  ever  attained  to.  The  Church,  in  the  sense  of  a 
Body  worthy  of  the  Head,  is  still  as  much  an  un 
realized  vision  as  the  New  Jerusalem — the  city  with 
foundations  of  sapphire  and  gates  of  pearl.  But 
what  are  you  to  do?  You  must  take  Christianity  as 
you  find  it,  or  leave  it  alone." 

"Then  I  can  understand  why  there  should  be  so 
many  who  prefer  to  leave  it  alone." 

In  the  end  he  considered  it  less  humiliating  to 
return  the  eighty  dollars  to  the  donors,  who  took 
back  their  respective  contributions  without  excessive 
signs  of  regret.  It  was  summer  before  he  spoke  of 
the  incident  again.  He  would  not  have  done  so 
then  but  for  Fanny  Hornblower's  concern  as  to  what 
had  become  of  poor  Hattie  Bright.  She  hadn't  seen 
her  for  so  long. 

They  were  walking  on  the  beach  at  Idlewild,  Mr. 
Hornblower's  residence  in  Long  Island.     Mrs.  Horn- 
blower  admitted  calling  the  place  Idlewild  because 
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one  name  was  as  good  as  another,  and  she  couldn't 
think  of  anything  else.  The  house — a  cluster  of  red 
gables  and  yellow  verandas — hung  above  them,  at 
the  top  of  a  long  cliff,  shelving  inland,  and  covered 
with  olive-green  scrub-oak.  A  schooner  was  beating 
its  way  down  the  Sound  toward  New  York,  while 
the  mainland  lay  as  a  thin  line  on  the  horizon. 
Charlie  Grace  had  come  down  to  Idlewild  to  spend  a 
Sunday. 

At  the  mention  of  Hattie  Bright  in  this  sympa 
thetic  fashion  he  suddenly  found  the  strings  of  his 
tongue  loosed.  He  told  Miss  Hornblower  of  the 
trouble  in  the  Bright  household  as  it  had  been  a 
few  months  earlier,  and  of  his  own  useless  efforts  to 
relieve  it. 

"  But  why  didn't  you  come  to  me  ?" 

He  confessed  that  he  hadn't  thought  of  it.  As  he 
said  so  he  made  subconscious  note  of  the  fact  that 
the  distress  in  her  eyes  rendered  her  almost  pretty. 
She  was  nearly  eighteen  now,  tall  and  thin,  her 
father's  harshness  of  outline,  which  she  had  inherited, 
tempered  by  her  natural  sweetness  into  something 
that  resembled  grace. 

"But  five  hundred  dollars,"  she  continued,  still 
with  distress  in  her  eyes,  "is  a  mere  nothing.  I 
always  have  more  than  that  in  my  little  bank- 
account  just  for  pin-money.  Papa  is  so  generous — 
that  is,"  she  added,  coloring,  "when  he  really  under 
stands.  You  mustn't  think  hardly  of  him,  Charlie. 
You  see,  this  is  something  he — he — he  naturally 
wouldn't  understand.  But  I  would.  Any  girl 
would.  Oh,  why  didn't  you  come  to  me?" 

It  was  difficult  to  tell  her  that  to  him,  at  least,  five 
hundred  dollars  was  a  sum  such  as  he  had  been 

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accustomed  to  associate  only  with  grown-up  people 
of  wealth — with  bankers  like  her  father  or  heiresses 
like  Miss  Smedley.  He  was  even  more  ashamed  of 
the  poverty  of  his  ideas  than  of  that  of  his  purse. 
He  made  the  explanation  somehow,  though  she  was 
so  little  interested  as  to  say: 

"Perhaps  it  isn't  too  late  even  now." 

"Oh,  it  must  be,"  he  declared.  "They're  either 
all  right  by  this  time  or  else  they're  dead.  It's  the 
sort  of  thing  that  has  to  be  short  and  sharp,  one 
way  or  the  other." 

"I  don't  see  that.  I  don't  see  that  at  all.  They 
may  have  been  able  to  scrape  along  up  to  now,  and 
still  be  in  debt.  I  wish  you'd  go  and  see." 

He  did  go  and  see  on  Monday  morning,  imme 
diately  on  his  return  to  New  York.  But  Mrs. 
Bright  and  her  daughter  had  gone  and  the  boarding- 
house  had  been  turned  into  a  "three-family"  tene 
ment.  Moreover,  no  one  could  tell  him  where  the 
late  occupants  had  found  refuge.  Some  said  in 
Harlem,  others  in  Hoboken;  but  no  one  knew  for 
sure. 


CHAPTER  X 

BECK  HALL,  CAMBRIDGE,  June  6,  1889. 

DEAR  CHARLIE, — My  sister  is  in  Boston  for  a  few 
days    staying   with    the   Crumps.      Will   you    come 
here  to  my  room  to-morrow,  Saturday,  about  five,  to  meet 

her  and  have  tea?  v 

Y  ours, 

R.    HORNBLOWER. 

There  were  several  reasons  why  the  foregoing  note 
should  take  Charlie  Grace  by  surprise.  Of  these 
the  most  important  lay  in  the  separation  that  nearly 
two  years  at  Harvard  had  wrought  between  him 
and  the  two  friends  with  whom  he  had  entered  on 
his  university  career.  Owing  to  the  necessity  of 
making  the  best  clubs,  and  not  being  seen  with  the 
wrong  people,  Furny  and  Reggie  Hornblower  had 
been  obliged  to  drop  him.  The  process,  which  had 
begun  during  the  latter  part  of  the  freshman  year, 
was  in  full  operation  when  they  returned  to  Cam 
bridge  as  sophomores.  That  it  was  pleasant  to  the 
victim  of  it  could  not  be  admitted,  and  yet  he  was 
philosophic  enough  to  see  that  if  his  old  chums  were 
to  reach  the  goal  of  their  ambitions  it  could  only  be 
at  the  sacrifice  of  friendship.  Perhaps  the  one 
marked  experience  of  his  earlier  months  at  Harvard 
was  in  finding  himself  weeded  out  from  among  "the 
right  people"  and  herded  with  "the  wrong."  His 
astonishment  was  the  greater  in  that  he  had  not 

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supposed  the  process  to  be  going  on  before  dis 
covering  the  fact  accomplished.  The  method  had 
been  as  silent  and  mysterious  as  the  return  of  winter, 
and  as  cold. 

At  first  the  several  hundred  young  men  who  formed 
the  freshman  class  had  represented  multitude  with 
out  personality,  like  a  swarm  of  bees.  Then  had 
come  broad  and  general  lines  of  cleavage;  then 
affiliations  and  selections;  then  elections  and  segre 
gations;  then  the  scorn  from  the  top  and  the  envy 
from  the  bottom  that  have  characterized  the  social 
groupings  of  mankind  since  the  world  began. 

To  do  Charlie  Grace  justice,  he  was  tolerably 
free  from  envy.  He  had  had  moments  of  indigna 
tion  and  revolt,  but  he  had  learned  that  if  his  old 
chums  were  to  reap  the  highest  advantages  of 
Harvard  they  must  do  it  in  the  Harvard  way.  They 
could  not  afford  to  be  intimate  with  him;  they 
could  hardly  afford  to  know  him. 

Perceiving  this,  he  was  able  to  be  tolerant  when  he 
thought  of  them,  and  could  even  justify,  from  the 
Harvard  point  of  view,  their  methods  of  procedure. 
Nevertheless,  he  was  obliged  to  read  Reggie's  letter 
a  second  and  a  third  time  to  be  sure  of  its  meaning. 
It  could  hardly  be  that  after  the  embarrassing  shifts 
to  which  he  had  driven  Reggie  during  the  past 
eighteen  months  the  latter  could  be  inviting  him 
now  to  a  social  function.  If  he  were  giving  a  tea 
he  would  be  "queering  himself,"  as  the  phrase  began 
to  go  among  undergraduates,  by  the  mere  presence 
of  such  an  outsider  as  himself.  And  yet  what  else 
did  the  invitation  imply?  If  Fanny  were  coming 
she  must  of  necessity  be  accompanied  by  Mrs. 
Crump;  and  in  Boston  Crump  was  a  name  to  com- 

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mand  awe.  Just  to  be  admitted  where  Mrs.  Crump 
was  doing  the  honors  would  be  little  short  of  being 
"taken  up." 

He  began  to  pace  his  room.  It  was  time  for  him 
to  run  out  to  the  frugal  breakfast  he  took  at  a  counter 
in  Harvard  Square,  but  he  had  forgotten  he  was  hun 
gry.  There  was  one  suggestion  which  might  offer 
an  explanation,  but  which  he  did  his  best  to  put  away. 
He  could  have  done  this  the  more  easily  if  it  had 
come  for  the  first  time;  but,  unfortunately,  the 
suspicion  that  Fanny  cared  for  him  was  of  nearly  a 
year's  duration.  It  had  struck  him  quite  suddenly 
one  day  in  the  preceding  summer  when  he  had  spent 
a  Sunday  at  Idlewild  in  Reggie's  absence.  Since 
then  it  had  haunted  him,  though  whenever  it  came 
he  tried  to  dismiss  it  by  calling  himself  an  ass.  He 
called  himself  an  ass  again,  but  the  ridiculous  thought 
persisted. 

It  was  this  persistence  that  finally  sent  him  to  his 
desk. 

DEAR  REGGIE, — Awfully  sorry.  Very  busy.  Can't 
come. 

Yours,  C.  GRACE. 

He  felt  better  after  that.  He  could  even  have 
forgotten  the  incident  if,  on  coming  back  to  his 
room  later  in  the  day,  he  had  not  found  a  note  from 
Fanny  herself,  delivered  at  the  house  by  hand. 

DEAR  CHARLIE, — Reggie  telephones  me  that  you  are 
not  coming  to  his  rooms  this  afternoon.  Do  try  to.  I 
must  see  you  somewhere.  I  have  something  very  im 
portant  to  tell  you.  Very  sincerely  yours, 

FRANCES  HORNBLOWER. 
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There  was  nothing  for  it,  then,  but  to  brush  up 
his  best  suit,  which  he  rarely  had  occasion  to  put 
on,  and  present  himself  at  Beck  a  little  after  five. 
He  had  not  been  in  Reggie's  quarters  since  the 
early  freshman  weeks,  before  the  process  of  election 
and  predestination  had  begun.  After  his  own  dingy 
lodging  he  couldn't  help  finding  the  Beck  Hall  suite 
impressive,  with  its  arm-chairs  and  cushions  and 
hangings,  with  its  handsome  book-cases  full  of  hand 
some  books,  and  its  appropriate  Harvard  sporting 
trophies  decoratively  arranged.  It  being  June,  the 
windows  were  open,  and  a  faint  fragrance  of  lilac 
stole  in.  Down  in  the  courts,  between  the  hall  and 
the  gray-stone  church,  privileged,  godlike  youths 
were  playing  tennis. 

In  response  to  his  knock  Reggie  himself  opened 
the  door,  greeting  him  with  the  over-friendliness  that 
tries  to  hide  constraint. 

"Hel-lo,  old  Charlie.  Gad!  it's  good  to  see  you! 
Where  do  you  keep  yourself  all  the  time?  Here's 
Fanny.  Mrs.  Crump,  this  is  Mr.  Grace.  You  must 
have  heard  me  speak  of  him." 

Mrs.  Crump,  whose  position  at  the  tea-table 
placed  her  in  profile  toward  the  door,  turned  and 
surveyed  him  with  a  look  that  said  nothing  at  all. 
She  was  plain,  stout,  middle-aged,  and  dressed  in 
white. 

"How  do  you  like  your  tea?"  she  asked,  in  a 
neutral  voice,  without  further  greeting.  "Lemon 
or  cream?" 

He  thanked  her,  and  declined  tea,  whereupon  she 
turned  to  Reggie,  who  had  already  retaken  his  seat 
beside  her. 

"So  I  told  her,"  she  continued  to  Reggie,  speaking 

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in  her  even,  neutral  voice,  "that  if  she  scattered  her 
invitations  broadcast  like  that  she  couldn't  look  to 
me  to  keep  her  straight.  She  hardly  could,  could 
she?  What  do  you  think?" 

Reggie,  with  his  elbows  on  his  knee,  his  saucer  in 
one  hand  and  his  cup  in  the  other,  proceeded  to  give 
his  opinion  in  the  low  tones  of  one  who  discusses  a 
reverent  theme  reverently.  He  had  all  the  good 
looks  in  the  Hornblower  family,  the  face  being 
delicate — -perhaps  too  delicate — and  not  without  a 
touch  of  distinction.  The  eyes  were  prominent 
and  rather  weak;  but  the  mouth  was  well  formed, 
and  marked  by  the  coming  of  a  young  mustache. 
In  his  gray  coat  and  trousers,  relieved  by  a  white 
waistcoat  of  the  latest  cut  and  set  off  by  a  lavender- 
gray  tie  with  a  pearl  in  it,  he  was  immaculately  spick 
and  span.  For  the  first  time  since  his  coming  to 
Harvard  Charlie  Grace  began  to  perceive  that 
between  the  right  people  and  the  wrong  there  was  a 
gulf,  to  the  width  and  depth  of  which  he  had  not 
hitherto  done  justice.  He  questioned  whether  he 
could  ever  have  looked  like  that,  even  with  Reggie's 
tailor  and  resources. 

"Won't  you  come  over  here  and  talk  to  me?" 

He  found  himself  sitting  beside  the  open  window 
with  Fanny,  who  was  eating  a  bit  of  cake  and  sipping 
her  tea.  They  talked  at  first  of  things  indifferent,  of 
his  work  in  college,  of  her  winter  abroad. 

He  had  not  seen  her  since  the  previous  summer  at 
Idlewild,  and  noted  at  once  that  she  had  changed 
for  the  better.  Perhaps  because  the  Parisian 
couturiere  had  dressed  her  in  feathers  and  laces  and 
soft  swathing  things  she  was  less  angular  and  severe. 
Into  the  creamy  white  of  her  costume  the  artist 

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had  introduced  touches  of  pale-blue  satin,  which 
brought  out  the  sweet  mistiness  of  her  pale-blue 
eyes. 

Some  ten  desultory  minutes  had  gone  by  when 
Mrs.  Crump  rose  and  said: 

"We're  going  down  to  the  courts  to  see  the  tennis. 
I  suppose  you  don't  want  to  come?" 

As  though  in  response  to  a  cue  already  arranged, 
Fanny  replied : 

"No;  it's  too  hot.  We'll  sit  here  and  watch  you 
from  the  window." 

Charlie  Grace  wondered  what  it  all  meant.  Evi 
dently  tea  was  over,  and  no  more  guests  were 
expected.  The  whole  thing  had  seemingly  been 
arranged  for  him.  The  very  movement  of  the  host 
and  the  chaperon  toward  the  tennis-court  looked,  as 
he  said  to  himself,  "like  a  put-up  job."  He  con 
fessed  himself  mystified. 

"Sit  down  again,"  Fanny  said,  at  once,  when  the 
door  had  closed.  "We  mayn't  have  many  minutes, 
and  I  must  talk  to  you.  I've  really  come  to  Boston 
on  purpose.  I  asked  Mrs.  Crump  to  take  me  in,  and 
to  come  with  me  this  afternoon." 

Her  manner  had  changed.  As  she  spoke  she 
pulled  on  her  long  gloves  nervously,  continuing  to 
smooth  the  fingers  after  they  were  smooth  already. 
She  had  drawn  down  her  veil  so  that  he  could  see 
her  features  less  distinctly.  He  had  never  seen  her 
wear  a  veil  before.  It  gave  the  finishing  touch  to 
her  appearance  as  a  grown-up  young  lady. 

"I  suppose,"  she  began  again,  "you  have  no  idea  of 
what  I'm  going  to  tell  you?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "Not  the  slightest — unless 
it  is  that  you're  engaged." 

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"Please  don't  joke,  Charlie.  I've  come  to  Boston 
on  purpose.  I  was  afraid" — she  hesitated,  looking 
about  her  as  though  for  help — "I  was  afraid  you 
might  hear  it  in  some  way  that  would  be  more  of  a 
shock  to  you.  I  thought  that  if  I  told  you  it  mightn't 
— it  mightn't  seem  so  hard.  I  dare  say  it  will, 
though— 

"But  what  is  it,  Fanny?     What  on  earth  is  up?" 

"It's  about  your  father." 

He  was  startled.     "About  my  father?" 

"Then  I  see  you  haven't  heard  at  all.  They've 
asked  him — " 

She  stopped,  biting  her  lower  lip,  trying  to  get 
sufficient  self-control  to  go  on.  He  set  himself  to 
think  of  the  worst,  of  the  most  improbable  calamity 
that  could  overtake  the  rector  of  St.  David's. 

"They  haven't  asked  him — "  He  brought  out  the 
words  with  some  difficulty.  "They  haven't  asked 
him — to  resign  ?" 

"Not  just  in  that  way.  They've  asked  him  to 
accept  the  position  of  rector  emeritus." 

It  was  a  relief  to  be  able  to  say,  "What's  that?" 

She  tried  to  explain.  "It  isn't  resigning  exactly. 
It's  still  being  a  sort  of  rector— a  sort  of  honorary 
rector — though  some  one  else  would  do  the  work." 

He  went  straight  to  the  point  he  knew  to  be  the 
most  practical.  "And  get  the  salary?" 

"I — I  suppose  so." 

"And  my  father  wouldn't  have  anything  at  all?" 

"They've  discussed  that — I  understand — in  the 
vestry.  They'd  be  glad  to  give  your  father  a  salary 
— a  large  salary — only  they  think  the  income  of  the 
church — which  has  fallen  off  a  good  deal  of  late 
years — perhaps  you  didn't  know  that — " 

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"Oh  yes,  I  did.  And  they  put  the  blame  on  my 
father." 

"It  isn't  blame,  exactly.  It's —  Oh,  Charlie,  I 
hardly  know  how  to  express  it!  But,  you  see,  he's 
not  young— and  he's  been  rector  of  St.  David's  a 
good  many  years — " 

"And  they  want  a  change." 

"Oh,  don't  look  like  that.  You  make  me  feel  as  if 
my  coming  to  Boston  to  tell  you  hadn't  done  any 
good." 

"It's  done  a  lot  of  good.  If  I'd  heard  it  in  any 
other  way  I  don't  know  how  I  should  have  taken  it. 
I'll  thank  you  later.  Just  now  I  need  to  get  to  the 
bottom  of  the  thing.  It's  as  I  say,  isn't  it?  My 
father  has  been  there  too  long;  they're  tired  of  him, 
and  they  want  a  change?" 

"Not  really  a  change.  That's  secondary.  They 
only  think  that  if  they  had  a  younger  man — and 
more  modern  methods  in  the  parish — " 

"And  how  do  they  expect  my  father  to  live?" 

She  gazed  at  him  wonderingly.  It  was  evidently 
the  sort  of  question  she  had  not  been  in  the  habit 
of  considering. 

"I'm  afraid  I  haven't  thought  about  that.  I 
didn't  ask.  I  suppose  they  think  he — he  has  money." 

"He  hasn't— hardly  any." 

"Oh,  Charlie,  hasn't  he?  That  makes  it  worse, 
doesn't  it?" 

"It  makes  it  decidedly  worse.  It  makes  it  so 
much  worse  that — " 

He  didn't  finish  the  sentence.  There  was  in 
reality  no  way  to  finish  it.  How  disastrous  the 
situation  was  no  one  could  say  just  yet.  He  got  up 
to  go. 


THE     WAY     HOME 


She,  too,  rose.  "You  see,  Charlie,"  she  said,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes  and  in  her  voice — "you  see,  I've 
heard  them  talking  of  it  for  some  time  past.  I 
naturally  would — with  the  interest  papa  and  mama 
have  always  taken  in  the  parish.  But  I  hoped — 
oh,  I  did  hope! — it  wouldn't  happen.  And  then 
there  was  a  meeting  of  the  vestry  at  which  they 
decided  to  bring  it  before  the  parish — and  the  parish 
meeting  was  held  on  Wednesday  night — and  the 
vote  was — " 

"I  see,  I  see,"  he  interrupted,  wishing  to  spare  her. 
"I  know  how  it  would  be  done.  And  they  told  my 
father  the  next  day?" 

"No,  not  the  next  day.  Only  yesterday.  Papa 
was  on  the  committee— so  I  knew  it  was  going  to 
be — and  I  came  right  on.  I  wired  to  Mrs.  Crump — 
she's  always  been  so  kind — " 

He  held  out  his  hand.  "Good-by,"  he  said, 
abruptly.  "Say  good-by  for  me  to  Reggie.  You'll 
excuse  my  running  away,  won't  you?  I've  got  to 
think  it  over,  and  see  what  I  have  to  do.  I  shall 
not  try  to  thank  you  yet — " 

He  was  still  young  enough  to  lose  his  voice  in  a 
choking  sensation  that  sent  him  hurriedly  away, 
especially  after  he  had  seen  her  turn  suddenly  to  the 
window  with  her  handkerchief  to  her  lips. 

He  was  near  the  door  before  she  found  herself  able 
to  say: 

"You  know,  Charlie,  if  there's  any  immediate 
need  of  money — I  always  have  some — and  I  could 
get  more." 

He  turned  with  his  hand  on  the  knob.  "Thank 
you,  Fanny,  but  there  won't  be  any  need  of  that 
sort.  I've  some  money  of  my  own.  Perhaps  you 

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didn't  know  that  when  my  grandfather  died  last 
year  he  left  me  six  thousand  dollars.  If  necessary, 
I  shall  spend  it  all— 

"Oh,  but  wouldn't  that  be  a  pity?  Wouldn't 
it  be  better — if  it's  invested — to  leave  it — ?  You'll 
excuse  me  for  interfering,  won't  you,  Charlie? 
You  don't  know  how  broken-hearted  I  am — about 
the  whole  thing." 

"You're  kinder  than  I  can  say,  Fanny;  but,  you 
see,  with  regard  to  money,  I  must  take  up  the 
responsibilities  of  my  father's  support.  I  don't  care 
what  I  spend — " 

"But  he  has  other  children.  I  don't  see  why  it 
should  all  come  on  you." 

"He  has  other  children,  but  they're  not  so  near  to 
him  as  I  am.  My  brother  Edward  doesn't  seem  like 
his  son  at  all.  He's  only  come  to  see  father  two 
or  three  times  in  the  last  fifteen  years.  He  hasn't 
been  very  successful,  either.  And  of  course  I 
couldn't  let  Emma  take  Osborne  Tomlinson's  money 
— but  there'll  be  no  trouble  about  that.  It's  only  the 
idea  of  the  thing  that  I  mind — the  humiliation  for 
poor  father.  As  for  money  in  itself,  I  know  I  could 
make  plenty — I  feel  it  in  me — if  I  wasn't  hampered." 

"Hampered — how?" 

He  looked  vaguely  away  from  her.  "Oh,  well,  I 
don't  know.  I  shall  have  to  think  it  all  over." 


CHAPTER  XI 

/CHARLIE  GRACE  arrived  in  New  York  next 
**-**  morning.  He  had  taken  a  night  train,  because 
on  leaving  Beck  Hall  it  was  already  too  late  for  him 
to  catch  the  more  economical  steamer  by  which  he 
generally  traveled.  He  made  up  for  that,  however, 
by  sitting  in  the  day  coach  through  the  night,  thus 
saving  the  expense  of  a  bed. 

In  spite  of  the  warmth  of  the  June  morning  he  felt 
stiff  and  benumbed.  The  station  had  the  empty, 
purposeless  air  that  belongs  to  such  places  on  Sun 
day.  The  streets,  too,  were  long  empty  thorough 
fares  of  sunshine  in  which  the  debris  of  Saturday  lay 
the  more  sickeningly  visible  because  of  the  absence 
of  the  crowd. 

Now  that  the  excitement  which  had  brought  him 
had  died  away,  he  wondered  for  what  exact  purpose 
he  had  come.  On  leaving  Beck  Hall  on  the  preced 
ing  afternoon  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  hardly 
live  through  the  hours  that  must  intervene  before  he 
reached  home;  but  now  in  the  hot  glare  of  morning 
he  felt  that  if  he  appeared  suddenly  at  breakfast,  as 
he  had  intended,  his  father  might  be  annoyed. 

For  nearly  half  an  hour  he  stood  with  his  bag  in 
his  hand  at  the  door  of  the  station,  aimlessly  watch 
ing  the  few  people  who  passed  in  and  out,  while  he 
wondered  what  to  do.  In  the  end  he  strolled  to  the 
hotel  across  the  street  and  had  a  cup  of  coffee  and 

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an  egg.  He  felt  better  after  that,  and  more  resolute. 
He  still  hesitated  to  appear  too  suddenly  in  Vandiver 
Place,  and  so  hung  about  the  lobby  of  the  hotel, 
where  a  half-dozen  country  guests,  unaccustomed 
to  late  sleeping  even  on  a  Sunday,  were  lounging  in 
their  tilted  chairs,  enjoying  the  leisure  of  New  York. 

By  half  past  nine  he  had  exceeded  his  capacity 
for  sitting  still,  and  with  his  bag  in  his  hand  he 
found  himself  descending  the  long  shadeless  stretch 
of  Madison  Avenue.  Except  for  the  newsboys  with 
their  monotonous  calls,  and  an  occasional  policeman, 
there  was  scarcely  a  living  creature  to  be  seen.  He 
walked  on  and  on. 

Vandiver  Place,  too,  was  hot  and  empty.  On 
approaching  St.  David's  he  saw  the  door  open,  and 
slipped  in.  If  he  were  to  meet  Remnant  he  would 
caution  him,  and  steal  up  to  the  old  organ-loft  above 
the  west  door,  which,  except  at  Easter  or  on  the  occa 
sion  of  a  fashionable  wedding,  was  always  empty. 

Remnant  was  nowhere  in  sight,  so  that  Charlie 
Grace  could  creep  up  the  narrow  stairs  unperceived. 
The  gallery  on  which  he  emerged  had  once  been 
sacred  to  the  quartette  choir.  It  was  apparently  a 
spot  that  Remnant  felt  himself  entitled  to  neglect, 
for  old  hymn-books  lay  on  the  dusty  benches,  and 
here  and  there  a  detached  sheet  of  some  long- 
forgotten  anthem.  On  the  fly-leaf  of  the  worn 
prayer-book  he  pushed  away  in  order  to  sit  down 
he  read  the  penciled  words,  "Look  at  the  hat  in  the 
third  pew  from  the  front."  There  was  a  faint  odor 
of  old  perfumes  in  the  place,  as  though  the  sopranos 
and  contraltos  who  had  followed  each  other  in  suc 
ceeding  quartettes  had  left  that  much  of  their 
personalities  behind  them. 

I3S 


THE     WAY     HOME 


In  the  back  seat  against  the  wall  he  was  well  out  of 
sight,  while  commanding  the  chancel  and  two-thirds 
of  the  red-lined  pews  below.  He  saw  Remnant,  in 
his  beadle's  gown,  slipping  about  silently,  putting 
books  that  were  out  of  place  into  the  racks,  straight 
ening  hassocks,  and  otherwise  "tidying  up."  Rem 
nant  was  over  fifty  now,  though  he  still  retained  his 
youthful  air.  His  hair  and  mustache  were  slightly 
silvered,  but  otherwise  Charlie  Grace  could  see  little 
change  in  his  friend  since  the  days  when  he  himself 
was  a  child. 

In  the  chancel  Mr.  Peterson,  the  new  organist, 
was  laying  out  the  music.  Wearing  a  surplice  but 
no  cassock — in  order  to  keep  his  feet  free  for  pedal- 
work — he  presented  the  singular  appearance  of  a 
man  walking  about  publicly  in  his  shirt.  The  rec 
tor's  son  was  but  slightly  acquainted  with  Mr. 
Peterson.  Mr.  Wrench,  who  had  been  organist  for 
the  past  twenty  years,  had  left  when  the  vestry 
proposed  to  reduce  his  salary  and  had  already,  ac 
cording  to  Remnant,  secured  "a  dandy,  high-priced 
church"  in  Philadelphia.  From  the  schoolroom 
beyond  the  chancel,  whenever  the  connecting  green- 
baize  door  swung  open  and  shut,  came  the  voices  of 
wrangling  choir-boys.  Later,  when  Mr.  Peterson 
had  finished  putting  out  the  music,  one  could  hear 
them  singing  scales. 

Presently  the  congregation  began  to  straggle  in — 
singly — by  twos  and  threes — -husbands  and  wives, 
with  their  children,  together.  The  men  for  the 
most  part  wore  frock-coats  and  carried  their  silk 
hats  carefully  on  a  level  with  their  left  shoulders. 
The  ladies  and  little  girls  were  in  light  summer  tints. 
He  could  call  most  of  those  who  entered  by  name, 

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though  some  few  were  strangers.  The  objectionable 
element  introduced  by  Rufus  Legrand  had  almost 
disappeared. 

There  were  still  many  unoccupied  seats  when  Mr. 
Peterson  began  to  prelude  the  processional  hymn. 
In  the  course  of  some  minutes  the  green-baize  door 
again  swung  open,  and  little  boys,  clad  in  black  cas 
socks  and  very  short  white  surplices,  began  marching 
two  and  two  into  the  church,  shrilling  as  they  came: 

The  King  of  Love  my  Shepherd  is, 
Whose  goodness  faileth  never; 

I  nothing  lack  if  I  am  His, 
And  He  is  mine  forever. 

Charlie  Grace  did  not  rise,  as  did  the  congregation 
below,  when  the  choir  came  in.  For  the  first  time 
in  his  life  he  felt  himself  outside  the  current  of  what 
was  taking  place — a  spectator,  a  critic. 

The  trebles  were  followed  by  the  altos,  the  altos  by 
the  tenors,  and  the  tenors  by  the  basses.  Then  came 
Mr.  Drew,  the  newest  of  the  many  assistants  who 
had  succeeded  Mr.  Legrand,  walking  by  himself, 
and  lastly  Dr.  Grace,  also  alone.  Looking  at  him 
from  this  unusual  height,  his  son  noticed,  what  he 
had  never  seen  before,  that  the  rector  was  now  a  big 
unwieldy  man,  who,  as  he  closed  the  procession, 
strutted  and  rolled  perceptibly.  The  observation 
gave  him  a  queer  clutching  at  the  heart.  He  began 
to  ask  if  the  action  of  the  parish — which  up  to  that 
minute  had  seemed  so  preposterously  cruel — might 
not,  from  some  points  of  view,  be  justified. 

The  choir  having  reached  their  places  with  the 
words, 

And  oh,  what  transport  of  delight 
From  Thy  pure  chalice  floweth, 
10  137 


THE     WAY     HOME 


Mr.  Peterson  proceeded  to  play  the  "Amen,"  bring 
ing  the  hymn  to  a  close  regardless  of  its  contents. 

The  opening  part  of  the  service  was  taken  by 
Mr.  Drew  in  tones  so  mouthed  and  mumbled  as  to 
reduce  the  incomparable  language  as  nearly  as  pos 
sible  to  a  hodge-podge.  Charlie  Grace  was  accus 
tomed  to  hearing  the  liturgy  badly  read,  but  because 
on  this  particular  morning  his  heart  was  yearning  for 
something  in  the  nature  of  a  message  he  resented 
Mr.  Drew's  incompetence.  It  was  a  relief  to  come 
to  the  psalms  for  the  day,  which  even  the  high- 
pitched  jabbering  chant  of  the  boys  could  not  rob 
of  their  peculiar  fitness  to  what  his  father  might 
supposedly  be  thinking. 

Put  me  not  to  rebuke,  O  Lord,  in  thine  anger;  neither 
chasten  me  in  thy  heavy  displeasure: 

For  thine  arrows  stick  fast  in  me;  and  thy  hand  press- 
eth  me  sore.  .  .  . 

I  have  required  that  they,  even  mine  enemies,  should 
not  triumph  over  me;  for  when  my  foot  slipped  they 
rejoiced  greatly  against  me.  .  .  . 

They  also  that  reward  evil  for  good  are  against  me; 
because  I  follow  the  thing  that  good  is. 

Forsake  me  not,  O  Lord  my  God:  be  not  thou  far  from 
me.  .  .  . 

I  have  declared  thy  righteousness  in  the  great  con 
gregation:  lo,  I  will  not  refrain  my  lips,  O  Lord,  and  that 
thou  knowest. 

I  have  not  hid  thy  righteousness  within  my  heart:  my 
talk  hath  been  of  thy  truth,  and  of  thy  salvation.  .  .  . 

As  for  me  I  am  poor  and  needy;  but  the  Lord  careth 
for  me. 

Thou  art  my  helper  and  redeemer:  make  no  long 
tarrying,  O  my  God. 

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The  rector  read  the  lessons.  His  son  tried  to 
listen  to  him  as  a  stranger  might.  It  was  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  had  ever  attempted  to  judge  or 
appraise  his  father.  He  had  always  supposed  him 
to  read  well.  He  remembered  that  in  his  childhood 
Miss  Smedley  had  said  that  Dr.  Grace  read  the 
Bible  as  though  he  were  "rendering  Shakespeare." 
The  son  had  taken  this  to  be  high  praise,  and  had 
gone  on  ever  since  in  the  comfortable  belief  that  it 
was  merited.  He  heard  now  a  big  voice,  that  had 
once  been  mellow,  telling  the  story  of  the  fall  of  man 
— which  happened  to  be  the  first  lesson  for  the  day — 
in  tones  pompous  and  curiously  overintimate.  In 
his  sensitive  state  of  mind  Charlie  Grace  bent  his 
head,  blushing  inwardly — for  his  father  and  himself. 
If  this  were  the  transmission  of  a  divine  word,  he 
argued,  it  was  in  a  way  that  could  do  little  good  to 
any  one.  He  began  to  think  it  small  wonder  that 
those  among  the  listless  people  below  who  cared  at 
all  should  want  a  change. 

Later  his  father  preached.  He  took  his  text  from 
the  epistle  for  the  first  Sunday  after  Trinity — which 
Sunday  it  was:  "In  this  was  manifested  the  love  of 
God  toward  us,  because  that  God  sent  His  only 
begotten  Son  into  the  world,  that  we  might  live 
through  Him." 

With  the  announcement  of  the  text  there  was  a 
momentary  gleam  of  interest  on  the  part  of  the 
congregation.  Even  though  the  young  man  could 
see  but  backs,  he  knew  that  heads  were  lifted  and 
eyes  turned  expectantly  toward  the  preacher.  It 
reminded  him  of  the  patience  of  a  dog,  who,  though 
ninety-nine  times  disappointed,  will  return  the  hun 
dredth  time  still  with  a  look  of  hope.  Possibly,  too, 

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there  was  some  curiosity  as  to  any  reference  the  de 
posed  rector  might  make  to  the  events  of  the  past 
week.  But  he  made  none.  Slowly,  ponderously, 
sonorously,  he  developed  his  subject,  reading  his 
manuscript  with  the  grand  manner  that  had  made 
him  popular  in  the  sixties,  and  was  now  a  grand 
manner  and  no  more.  Even  with  such  strained  and 
pained  attention  as  his  own  Charlie  Grace  found  it 
difficult  to  follow  the  laborious  arguments.  There 
was  nothing  spontaneous  or  living  in  the  treatment 
of  the  theme.  It  was  wordy;  it  was  dead.  Little 
by  little  eyes  were  averted  and  heads  bent,  while  a 
sense  of  weariness  pervaded  the  church. 

Service  ended,  the  choir  marched  out  to  the  words 
"O,  Mother  dear,  Jerusalem"  sung  to  a  lilt  like  that 
of  a  mazurka.  There  being  no  further  use  for  the 
hymn  when  once  the  green-baize  door  was  reached, 
Mr.  Peterson  sounded  the  "Amen"  at  the  fourth 
verse,  thus  finishing  in  a  query.  With  this  note  of 
interrogation  in  his  heart  Charlie  Grace  stole  down 
the  little  stair  again  and  out  into  the  street  before 
the  congregation  had  begun  to  disperse.  He  knew 
a  short  cut  that  would  take  him  to  Broadway,  where 
he  would  be  beyond  the  risk  of  recognition. 

The  note  of  interrogation  persisted  in  his  thoughts. 
What  did  it  mean  ?  What  was  the  good  of  it  ?  Was 
this  formalism  worship?  Could  these  dry  bones 
live?  Was  there  anything  but  empty  sound  in  the 
piping  of  a  lot  of  boys,  scratched  together  from  all 
parts  of  New  York,  at  the  rate  of  twenty-five  cents 
each  per  Sunday? 

With  his  bag  still  in  his  hand  he  hurried  along  the 
deserted  pavement  of  Broadway  toward  the  lower 
part  of  the  city.  He  kept  saying  to  himself  that  he 

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must  think  things  over;  and  yet  coherent  thought 
would  not  come.  He  only  knew  that,  for  the  mo 
ment  at  any  rate,  he  must  get  as  far  away  as  possible 
from  Vandiver  Place,  and  so  tramped  on,  indifferent 
to  the  heat. 

It  was  after  nine  that  night  when  he  returned. 
He  had  spent  the  interval  chiefly  on  the  grass  of 
Battery  Park,  cooling  himself  in  the  sea-breeze  and 
watching  young  foreigners  at  play.  He  reacted 
from  his  spiritual  depression  of  the  morning  to 
renewed  indignation  on  his  father's  behalf.  He  went 
back  to  the  rectory  only  when  it  became  necessary 
to  seek  shelter  for  the  night. 

He  knew  the  evening  service  must  be  over,  though 
a  few  lights  still  gleamed  pictorially  through  the 
elongated  stained-glass  windows.  He  found  Rem 
nant  about  to  close  the  big  west  doors. 

"Why,  sonny! — Mr.  Charlie,  I  mean.  Good  Lord, 
you  made  me  think  you  was  a  ghost!" 

"Well,  I  feel  like  a  ghost,  Remnant." 

"So  you  do,  Mr.  Charlie;  and  you're  not  the  only 
one.  You've  heard  the  news  ?  Of  course  you  have, 
or  you  wouldn't  be  here.  Well,  your  poor  pa  '11  be 
awful  glad  you've  come.  I  never  see  a  man  so 
changed.  It's  as  if  he'd  got  a  stroke.  It  seems  to 
me  he  don't  talk  sensible.  What  do  you  think  he 
says  to  me  this  morning?  He  says  to  me,  'Rem 
nant,'  says  he,  'the  Lord's  vineyard  is  a  pretty  big 
place;  and  when  we  find  our  work  in  one  corner  of  it 
is  done  I  guess  it  means  there's  something  to  do  in 
another.'  I  felt  awful  bad,  sonny — Mr.  Charlie,  I 
mean — to  hear  him  talk  like  that.  It  was  just  as 
if  he'd  gone  off  his  head.  If  he  has,  he's  been  drove 
off  it — that's  what  I  say;  and  there's  them  in  St. 

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David's   that  '11   never    rest   till   I'm   drove   off  it, 
too." 

Charlie  Grace  let  himself  into  the  house  with  his 
latch-key.  Throwing  his  hat  and  bag  on  the  old 
sofa  in  the  hall,  he  went  straight  to  the  dining-room 
door.  He  found  his  father  at  table,  a  book  propped 
up  before  him,  while  he  ate  his  cold  meat.  There 
were  few  of  the  signs  of  depression  about  him  that 
his  own  fears  and  Remnant's  words  had  led  him  to 
expect.  He  seemed  older,  however,  and  perhaps  weary. 

He  looked  up  with  a  start  when  his  son  had  been 
standing  some  few  seconds  on  the  threshold. 

"Hello,  my  boy!     What's  brought  you  here?" 

"I — I — came  on,"  the  young  man  stammered,  as 
they  shook  hands.  It  was  all  that  seemed  possible 
to  say. 

"No  trouble,  I  hope?  You  haven't  got  into  a 
scrape  ?" 

Charlie  Grace  smiled  dimly,  shaking  his  head. 
"No;  nothing  of  that  kind." 

"Then  sit  down  and  have  some  supper.  Get  your 
self  a  plate.  There's  probably  something  you'll 
like  better  in  the  way  of  food,  if  you'll  forage  for  it. 
I  told  Julia  there  was  no  need  for  her  to  stay  in. 
Now  that  the  poor  old  soul  runs  the  house  by  herself, 
I  give  her  as  much  time  off  as  I  can." 

Charlie  Grace  returned  from  the  pantry  presently 
with  a  plate  and  a  knife  and  fork  for  himself,  some 
cake  and  a  jar  of  milk.  Having  had  nothing  to  eat 
since  morning,  he  was  hungry. 

"Now  let's  have  it,"  the  rector  said,  as  soon  as  his 
son  was  seated.  It  was  plain  that  any  cares  he 
might  have  on  his  own  account  he  put  aside  from 
anxiety  as  to  this  sudden  appearance  of  the  boy. 

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"I  can't  let  you  have  it  all  at  once,"  the  son  re 
plied,  with  a  repetition  of  his  dim  smile,  "because 
there's  too  much  to  tell." 

"Then  begin  at  the  beginning.     Fire  away." 

"The  beginning  is  that  I'm  not  going  back." 

The  rector  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork  with  an  air 
of  genuine  dismay.  "Not  going  back?" 

"No,  father." 

"And  may  I  ask  why?" 

"Fanny  Hornblower  has  been  in  Boston — " 

A  queer  expectant  look  came  into  the  rector's 
face  which  caused  his  son  some  irritation  and  moved 
him  to  speak  more  bluntly  than  he  had  intended. 
"Fanny  Hornblower  has  been  in  Boston.  She  told 
me  what's  been  happening  here.  That  settles  it  for 
me.  I  can't  sponge  on  you  any  longer." 

"Even  if  you  can't,  you've  some  money  of  your 
own.  I'm  sure  your  grandfather  would  have  liked 
nothing  better  than  that  you  should  use  part  of  it  for 
your  education.  That's  always  a  good  investment — 

"Not  from  my  point  of  view." 

"  How  ? — from  your  point  of  view  ?  I  suppose  your 
point  of  view  is  like  that  of  any  one  else.  If  you're 
going  into  the  Church — " 

"But  I'm  not." 

There  was  a  long  pause  before  the  rector  said,  in 
an  awed  voice,  "You're  not?" 

"No,  father,  and  what's  more — I  may  as  well  tell 
you  at  once — I'm  done  with  religion." 

The  rector  stared.  He  took  out  his  handker 
chief  and  wiped  his  brow.  "You're  .  .  .  done  with 
.  .  .  what?" 

"I'm  done  with  religion,  father.  I  want  to  say  it 
plainly.  Fve  given  it  up." 

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So  as  not  to  meet  his  father's  eyes  Charlie  Grace 
kept  his  own  on  his  plate,  while  he  ate  fast  and 
hungrily. 

"What  do  you  mean  by — giving  it  up?" 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  mean  anything  beyond  what 
the  words  imply." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you've  lost  faith  in  it? — that 
you  think  it  isn't  true?" 

"I  haven't  gone  into  that.  I  don't  know  whether 
I  think  it's  true  or  not.  I  see  what  it  does.  I  see 
what  it  makes  of  people.  That's  enough  for  me. 
No;  I  don't  suppose  I  think  it  is  true.  I  shouldn't 
think  that  anything  that  was  true  could  work  so 
badly." 

"You'll  pardon  me  if  I  say  that  that's  a  very  crude 
opinion — " 

"I  dare  say  it  is,  father.  But  it's  the  one  I  hold 
and  the  one  I  mean  to  live  by." 

There  was  another  long  silence.  The  young  man 
pushed  away  the  plate  on  which  he  had  been  eating 
cold  beef,  and  began  on  cake  and  milk. 

"And  how  long  has  this — this  change  in  your  out 
look  been  going  on  ?" 

"In  one  sense,  only  within  the  last  twenty-four 
hours.  In  another  I  see  now  that  it's  been  my 
attitude  all  my  life." 

The  rector  leaned  forward,  his  elbows  on  the  table, 
and  scrutinized  his  son.  "And  in  the  sense  in  which 
it's  been  going  on  only  for  the  past  twenty-four 
hours,  has  it — has  it  anything  to  do  with  me?" 

Charlie  Grace  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  steadily 
at  his  father.  "It  has  something  to  do  with  you, 
sir,  in  that  what's  happened  here  has  given  the 
finishing  touch  to  showing  me  what  a  mockery  the 

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whole  thing  is.  In  a  religion  of  which  the  root-idea 
is  love  of  one's  neighbor  every  one  thinks  first  of 
himself.  When  he  thinks  of  his  neighbor  at  all  it's 
to  give  him  a  blow  or  a  kick.  I've  seen  a  lot  of  it; 
I've  suffered  a  lot  from  it,  too.  I  don't  propose  to 
suffer  any  more — at  least  not  without  claiming  an 
equal  liberty  for  myself." 

"You  mean  the  liberty  to  give  a  blow  or  a  kick— 

"Wherever  they  come  in  useful.  Yes,  father. 
That's  just  what  I  do  mean.  I  fail  to  see  any  one 
who  considers  any  one  else  in  anything.  I've  lived 
in  the  heart  of  religion  all  my  life,  and  I've  seen  as 
little  consideration  of  others  there  as  elsewhere. 
Certain  good  works  of  a  missionary  or  philanthropic 
sort  are  carried  on  by  an  impersonal  system  that 
needs  a  good  deal  in  the  way  of  outside  stimulus; 
but  when  it  comes  to  the  individual  you  can  hardly 
get  so  much  as  pity.  Look  at  what  happened  to  the 
Brights.  You've  heard  about  Hattie,  haven't  you?" 

The  rector  raised  his  brows  in  an  expression  of 
distress.  "Rumors  have  reached  me — " 

"Well,  I  guess  they're  true  enough.  And  it 
needn't  have  happened.  That's  my  point.  She'd 
have  gone  straight  if  it  hadn't  been  for  poverty; 
and  it  was  poverty  that  a  very  little  brotherly  love — 
if  there  had  been  such  a  thing — could  have  relieved. 
But,  you  see,  there  is  no  such  thing.  There  may  be 
a  pretense  at  it,  but  it  betrays  its  hollowness  the 
minute  you  put  it  to  the  test.  Look  at  what's  been 
happening  to  me  at  Harvard.  But  no;  I  forgot. 
That's  something  you  don't  know  anything  about. 
I  never  told  you." 

"Then  tell  me  now." 

"It's  almost  too  trivial  to  put  into  words.  I 

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shouldn't  speak  of  it  at  all  only  that  it  illustrates 
what  I'm  trying  to  say.  It's  simply  this — that 
Furny  and  Reggie — the  two  chums  with  whom  I 
grew  up — who've  had  all  the  influence  of  St.  David's 
— your  own  influence,  too — well,  they've  practically 
cut  me  for  the  last  two  years — " 

"Cut  you?" 

"  Because  I  wasn't  rich  enough — or  good  enough — 
or  something.  Mind  you,  father,  that's  a  detail.  I 
mention  it  only  to  show  you  how  useless  religion  is 
when  it  comes  to  a  practical  bearing  on  the  character. 
I'm  not  thinking  of  what  we  call  sin — but  of  what 
to  me  is  a  good  deal  worse  than  sin — and  that's 
meanness.  I've  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  most 
of  the  despicable  things  I've  seen — and  I've  seen  a 
lot — and  felt  them — have  been  committed  by  people 
who  keep  up  a  fundamental  connection  with  religion. 
Look  at  your  own  case.  After  forty  years'  work  in 
the  Church — after  thirty  years  given  continuously 
to  St.  David's,  on  what,  in  any  other  profession  in 
the  world,  would  have  been  called  starvation  wages, 
considering  your  position — after  all  that,  where  are 
you  now?  Kicked  out  without  a  cent.  The  expres 
sion  is  not  too  harsh— 

"It's  too  harsh  in  the  sense  that  if  I  don't  take  it 
so  bitterly  I  don't  see  why  you  should." 

"You  wouldn't  take  anything  bitterly,  father,  not 
if  it  was  martyrdom.  I'll  bet  you  you're  thinking 
now  how  you  can  pardon  the  whole  thing — " 

"I  should  be  a  poor  pupil  of  my  own  teaching  if 
I  were  not." 

"So  there  you  are.  But  I  can't  pardon  it.  Do 
you  see?  I  don't  care  what  the  reason — I  don't 
care  what  the  justification  they  may  have  had — the 

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best  they  could  do  would  never  have  offset  your 
years  of  service — " 

It  was  rare  in  those  days  to  see  a  flush  in  the  gray 
cheek  of  the  rector  of  St.  David's,  but  he  flushed  now 
with  a  painful  burning  red.  "The  parish  has  been 
running  down,  my  boy.  It's  only  fair  to  them  to  con 
sider  that.  I've  been  sensible  of  it  for  a  long  time 
past,  but  I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  The  truth  is — 
we  may  as  well  face  it — I  haven't  understood  the  con 
ditions.  Perhaps  Legrand  saw  them  better  than  I 
did.  To  my  mind  St.  David's  has  always  been  St. 
David's — the  parish  I  found  when  I  came  here.  But 
everything  has  been  changing  right  under  my  eyes, 
and  I  haven't  seen  it." 

Charlie  Grace  jumped  up  impatiently.  "Very 
likely.  I  shall  be  frank  enough  to  say,  father,  that 
I  think  you're  right.  But  that  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  disloyalty — " 

"Oh,  loyalty  has  never  been  a  strong  point  with 
us  Americans.  We  always  break  our  idols  as  soon 
as  we  cease  to  worship  them.  I  don't  mind  that  so 
much  as — " 

"So  much  as  what,  father?" 

"So  much  as  the  fact  of  having  been  an  unprofit 
able  servant.  It  may  seem  rather  late  to  come 
to  the  knowledge  of  it,  but  it's  better  than  never. 
A  rude  awakening  is  preferable  to  none  at  all.  I 
must  be  grateful  for  having  had  that,  even  if  some 
other  things  are  hard." 

The  rector  pushed  his  chair  back  from  the  table 
and  advanced  toward  the  fireplace,  where  his  son 
rested  his  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece.  They  stood 
facing  each  other  on  the  hearth-rug. 

"I  fail  to  see,"  the  young  man  said,  "what's  to  be 

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gained  by  an  awakening — rude  or  otherwise — at  this 
date." 

The  father  smiled — the  old  tolerant  smile,  and  yet 
with  a  new  shade  in  it.  "Yes,  you  would.  It's 
probably  something  that  no  one  of  your  age  could 
do  justice  to.  At  twenty  sixty-six  must  seem  played 
out.  You've  got  to  get  near  to  sixty-six  to  see  how 
little  it  is  played  out.  Moreover,  one  needs  a  larger 
experience  than  is  possible  at  your  age  to  realize 
the  fact  that  no  young  man,  however  active,  is  equal 
to  the  old  man  whose  mind  and  heart  are  open.  I 
reproach  myself  with  not  having  kept  pace  with 
my  time  as  much  as  I  might  have  done;  but  I'm 
good  for  something  yet." 

"You're  good  for  a  great  deal  yet,  father;  but 
that  subject  is  beside  the  mark  of  what  we're  dis 
cussing." 

"It  isn't  beside  the  mark  if  I  find  that  what  you 
consider  harsh  treatment  isn't  really  as  harsh  as  you 
think  it.  I've  been  talking  to  the  bishop  during  the 
past  few  days,  and  he's  been  most  kind — the  more 
so  since  he  and  I  haven't  at  all  times  seen  eye  to  eye. 
He  advises  me  not  to  hang  on  as  rector  emeritus 
of  St.  David's,  and  offers  me  the  parish  of  Gregory's 
Falls." 

"Gregory's — what  ?" 

"Gregory's  Falls;  it's  a  small  place — a  manu 
facturing  town — " 

"You?  You,  father?  In  a  small  place?  In  a 
manufacturing  town?  Why,  it  would  be  an  out 
rage." 

"An  outrage  to  work  in  my  Master's  service? — 
anywhere? — in  any  capacity?  That's  where  you 
fail  to  understand,  my  boy.  I  don't  blame  you. 

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Perhaps  I  shouldn't  have  understood,  either,  before 
this  thing  came  upon  me.  I  used  to  consider  it  a 
fine  thing  to  be  rector  of  St.  David's;  but  now — well, 
we  won't  talk  about  it.  I  only  want  you  to  know 
that  I  don't  feel  that  sense  of  wounded  pride  that 
you  might  expect.  I  did.  I  felt  it  keenly  during  the 
first  few  hours — but  it  passed.  It  passed  as  soon  as 
I — as  I  found  myself  ready  to — to  accept  my 
Master's  will — for  any  kind  of  work,  however 
humble- 

The  young  man  madena  gesture  of  impatience. 
"Please,  father,  don't  go  on.  I  can't  stand  it.  I 
don't  sympathize  with  what  you're  saying.  I  feel 
nothing  but  the  damned  ingratitude  of  people  to 
whom  you'd  have  given  your  life.  You  needn't  tell 
me  you  don't  care — 

"Oh,  but  I  do  care.  Of  course  I  care.  In  a  way  it 
will  be  like  the  tearing  asunder  of  body  and  soul  when 
I  actually  have  to  leave.  But  I  shall  be  equal  to  it. 
That's  what  I  want  you  to  see.  In  the  warfare  in 
which  I've  been  engaged  all  these  years  you  can  feel 
the  impact  of  a  shock — yes,  you  can  feel  that — but 
you  can't  be  struck  down.  I  should  be  a  worse 
soldier  than  I've  been  not  to  have  learned  that." 

With  his  hands  thrust  into  his  trousers  pockets 
and  his  head  bent,  Charlie  Grace  began  pacing  round 
the  table  strewn  with  the  remains  of  supper.  Some 
ten  or  fifteen  minutes  passed,  during  which  father 
and  son  kept  silence,  each  following  his  own  train  of 
thought.  The  younger  man  was  near  the  door  when 
he  said,  suddenly,  "I'm  going  to  bed." 

"Perhaps  that's  what  we'd  both  better  do." 

Charlie  Grace  raised  his  head  with  the  customary 
defiant  tilting  of  the  chin.  "  But  before  I  go,  father," 

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he  pursued,  "I  must  ask  you  to  understand  that 
what  I've  said  to-night  is  final." 

"You  mean  that  you're  going  to  let  it  all — go?" 

"I'm  going  to  let  it  all  go.  I'm  over  and  done 
with  it.  Please  don't  argue  with  me — or  try  to 
convince  me — " 

"Oh  dear,  no,  I  shouldn't  argue  with  you,  my  boy. 
But  ifyou  start  out  on  the  principle  you  expressed  just 
now,  of  giving  a  blow  or  a  kick  wherever  they  come 
in  useful,  life  itself  will  argue  with  you — will  show 
you  how  little  that  method  leads  to  ultimate  success." 

"It's  the  only  method,  as  I  see  things,  that  leads 
to  any  success  whatever.  All  our  best  civilized  and 
Christian  authorities  adopt  it — and,  whatever  the 
consequences,  I'm  going  to  do  the  same.  I've  been 
the  exception  hitherto;  now  I'm  going  to  follow  the 
rule.  And  the  rule  is — every  man  for  himself. 
There's  just  one  thing  that  used  to  hold  me  back — 
that  was  mama's  memory;  but  somehow  I  feel  that 
if  she  knew  how  I'd  been  driven  into  it — 

There  was  another  long  silence,  during  which  the 
rector  stood  balancing  himself  on  his  toes  and  looking 
down  at  the  hearth-rug,  while  his  son  kept  his  place 
by  the  door. 

"Well,  good  night,  father,"  Charlie  Grace  said  at 
last. 

"Good  night,  my  boy — and  God  bless  you!  You 
won't  mind  my  praying  for  you,  will  you  ?" 

Charlie  Grace  turned  in  the  hall  and  looked  back. 
"I've  parted  company  with  the  old  ideas  so  com 
pletely,  father,  that  I  wish  you  wouldn't.  But  I 
suppose  it's  no  use  asking  you  not  to." 

The  rector  shook  his  head  with  a  faint  smile. 
"No;  Fm  afraid  I  can't  yield  to  you  in  that." 

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•    I     MUST     ASK     YOU     TO     UNDERSTAND     THAT     WHAT     I'VE     SAID 
TO-NIGHT    IS     FINAL" 


CHAPTER  XII 

/CHARLIE  GRACE  wished  that  his  brother-in- 
**- '  law  Tomlinson  had  not  thought  it  well  "to 
talk  things  over"  at  breakfast  in  the  presence  of 
Miss  Penrhyn.  It  was  not  that  there  was  any 
secret  as  to  his  having  come  to  Winnipeg  looking  for 
work,  but  he  disliked  appearing  before  her  as  a 
suppliant.  It  tended  to  keep  him  in  that  position 
of  inferiority  which,  natural  as  it  may  have  been 
on  the  occasion  of  their  first  meeting,  was  slightly 
humiliating,  now  that  he  was  twenty-one.  He  had 
traveled  far  since  the  afternoon  at  "Carmen,"  four 
years  earlier,  and  would  have  been  glad  to  impress  her 
with  the  fact. 

He  didn't  at  all  know  what  he  wanted  of  Miss 
Penrhyn.  In  view  of  his  youth  and  impecuniosity 
he  would  have  scoffed  at  the  idea  of  love,  while 
flirtation  in  those  solemn  days  would  have  seemed 
to  lower  both  his  dignity  and  hers.  Something, 
nevertheless,  he  did  want,  and  the  lack  of  it,  the 
impossibility  of  even  defining  it,  brought  the  ache 
of  uneasiness  into  those  first  days  of  emancipation 
and  hope. 

"So  you  want  a  billet." 

A  few  years  ago  Osborne  would  have  said  "So 
you  want  a  job."  His  use  of  the  English  vernacular, 
with  its  echo  of  military  ways  of  speech,  was  a  sign 
of  the  Anglicizing  process  which,  through  long 


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sojourns  in  England  and  Canada  and  the  accumu 
lation  of  interests  under  the  British  flag,  was  gradu 
ally  transforming  the  Tomlinson  family. 

Charlie  Grace  was  conscious  of  a  quickening  of  the 
pulse.  He  had  waited  a  week  to  hear  his  brother- 
in-law  say  just  these  words.  During  that  time  he 
had  lived  in  an  inner  stillness  of  expectancy,  tensely 
patient,  knowing  the  oracle  would  speak  when  the 
divine  afflatus  moved  him. 

Now  that  the  mystic  moment  had  come,  it  was  not 
ill-suited  to  this  August  morning,  with  the  windows 
open  to  the  warm  and  bracing  prairie  wind,  bringing 
in  from  the  unkempt  garden  the  fragrance  of  verbena 
and  mignonette.  Warm  and  bracing  was  the  sunshine, 
too,  pervading  the  room,  from  the  treeless,  shadeless 
world  outside.  Through  the  muslin  curtains  flap 
ping  in  the  breeze  one  had  glimpses  of  a  town  suggest 
ing  the  first  chalk  sketch  of  a  future  masterpiece. 
Seen  by  an  eye  which  was  not  that  of  faith,  the 
Winnipeg  streets  had  the  ugliness  pertaining  to  most 
things  in  the  making,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  no  one 
in  1889  lived  in  the  Winnipeg  that  actually  was. 
Even  the  new-comer  felt  himself  a  dweller  in  the 
City  of  Destiny,  modeled  on  Chicago  or  the  New 
Jerusalem,  according  to  personal  ideals,  and  likely 
to  outdo  both.  Discomfort  and  crudeness  were 
then  but  as  dust  beneath  the  feet  of  conquerors. 

Not  that  there  was  any  discomfort  in  the  house 
Osborne  Tomlinson  had  rented  for  the  summer  from 
a  colleague  absent  in  England,  or  much  in  the  way 
of  crudeness,  though  the  furnishings  were  indicative 
of  that  meeting  of  alien  civilizations  which  the  Trans- 
Canadian  had  made  possible.  Heavy  mahoganies 
and  antiquated  reps,  drifted  from  mid-Victorian 

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England  or  eastern  Canada,  found  themselves  here, 
on  the  virginal  prairie,  mingling  in  a  common  task  of 
decoration  and  utility  with  Japanese  prints,  Chinese 
screens,  and  the  nameless  hues  of  Corean  potteries. 
The  fact  that  on  this  soil,  unstained  as  yet  by  the 
blood  and  traditions  of  men,  each  had  a  right  to  its 
place  negatived  incongruity  as  easily  as  when  the 
fuchsias  and  dahlias  and  bleeding-hearts  of  the 
Mongolian  hills  came  to  bloom  beside  the  pansies 
and  pinks  of  the  English  cottage-garden.  In  the 
center  of  the  table  a  mass  of  nasturtiums  arranged 
by  Hilda  Penrhyn  in  a  dull-green  bowl  from  Seoul 
was  like  a  reunion  of  once  intimate  but  long  sepa 
rated  friends. 

"So  you  want  a  billet." 

The  fact  that  the  subject  had  at  last  become  a 
living  issue  wrought  an  immediate  change  in  the 
group  about  the  table.  Emma  went  on  pouring 
out  the  coffee  with  the  intensified  composure  which 
was  her  sign  of  self-consciousness.  Sophy  lifted  her 
tousled  fair  head  like  a  kitten  lapping  milk;  Hilda 
Penrhyn,  after  a  look  from  her  clear  brown  eyes  at 
the  young  man  across  the  table,  applied  herself  to 
peeling  an  orange  daintily.  In  spite  of  his  preoc 
cupation  with  Osborne's  words  Charlie  Grace  re 
turned  the  look,  and  even  took  time  to  speak  of  it 
to  himself  as  a  "concession."  He  meant  that  it  was 
the  first  sign  of  interest  she  had  displayed  in  him 
during  the  whole  week  he  had  been  at  Winnipeg. 

Osborne  knocked  ofF  the  top  of  an  egg  before  speak 
ing  again.  "I  do  know  of  a  place — at  Forde,"  he 
barked.  "Can  have  it  if  you  like  and  can  do  the 
work." 

Charlie  Grace  threw  back  his  head  in  the  attitude 
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with  which  they  were  all  familiar.  "I  can  do  it 
unless  it's  something  that  demands  a  lot  of  experi 
ence  and  technical  skill.  I'm  pretty  good  as  a 
Jack-of-all-trades. " 

"Thought  you  might  be.  That's  why  I  speak 
of  the  place  at  Forde.  Post  in  which  you'd  have 
everything  to  do,  and  nothing  in  particular.  Nom 
inally  you'd  be  storekeeper,  but  really  you'd  have 
to  be  everything  between  night-watchman  and 
superintendent." 

Sophy  lifted  her  fluffy  head.  "But  that's  what 
you  said  to  Mr.  Mullins,  father." 

"So  I  did.     Saying  it  again." 

"But  is  it  the  same  position  you  offered  Mr. 
Mullins?" 

"Told  him  about  it.     Didn't  offer  it." 

"But  I  know  he  expects  it,"  Sophy  persisted, 
"because  poor  Mrs.  Mullins  told  me  so.  She  said 
what  a  godsend  it  was  going  to  be  to  them — with  so 
many  children — and  everything." 

"Mullins  could  have  had  it  if  Charlie  hadn't 
turned  up.  Now  he  can  have  it — if  he  wants  it." 

"Oh,  don't  take  it,  Charlie,"  Sophy  begged. 
"They're  so  awfully  poor,  you  know,  and  they've 
had  the  most  frightful  luck  ever  since  they  came 
out  from  England.  Mrs.  Mullins  said  this  was 
going  to  put  them  on  their  feet." 

There  was  a  minute's  silence,  during  which  the 
young  man's  eyes  again  met  Hilda  Penrhyn's  across 
the  table.  He  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  that  in 
hers  there  was  a  question.  He  took  it  as  a  challenge 
to  him  to  make  good  the  principles  by  which  he  meant 
to  live.  There  was  every  reason,  he  considered,  why 
he  should  not  back  down. 

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"I'll  take  it,"  he  said,  briefly. 

"Oh,  Charlie!"  Sophy  wailed.  "I'm  ashamed  of 
you.  A  married  man  with  a  family — " 

"Sophy,  how  you  talk,"  Emma  put  in.  "You 
can't  take  things  of  that  kind  into  account  in  busi 
ness.  If  your  father  had  done  so  you  wouldn't  be 
where  you  are  to-day — going  abroad  with  Hilda.  It's 
no  use  saying  you  would  be,  because  you  wouldn't. 
If  you  didn't  try  to  get  ahead  of  people  before 
they  get  ahead  of  you  the  world  would  come  to  a 
standstill.  It  has  to  be  that  way." 

"Well,  I  don't  care,"  Sophy  insisted.  "It  isn't 
a  bit  nice  of  Charlie — not  when  Mrs.  Mullins  was 
counting  on  it  to  get  them  out  of  debt — and  every 
thing." 

"Oh,  something  will  turn  up  for  Mr.  Mullins,"  the 
mother  said,  complacently.  "Your  father  won't 
forget  them." 

"Anyhow,  I  call  it  beastly,"  Sophy  declared, 
pushing  away  her  plate  and  leaving  the  room. 

Osborne  took  on  an  inscrutable  air,  like  a  bulldog 
turned  Fate.  It  was  impossible  to  tell  what  he 
thought  of  the  moral  issues  involved  in  his  young 
brother-in-law's  decision,  and  the  latter  had  so  far 
asserted  his  independence  of  judgment  that  he 
didn't  care.  He  searched,  however,  for  some  sign  of 
Miss  Penrhyn's  opinion,  but  found  none.  Trying 
again  to  catch  her  glance,  he  saw  nothing  but 
her  lowered  lids — lids  of  which  the  ivory  deepened 
to  bister  along  the  curved  fringe  of  the  lashes.  He 
attached  no  importance  to  the  fact  that  her  expres 
sion  had  grown  grave,  since,  in  his  experience,  she 
smiled  rarely.  When  she  did,  the  smile  came  slowly 
and  dreamily,  as  though  prompted  less  by  outward 


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happenings  than  by  inward  thoughts.  Neverthe 
less,  there  was  in  her  gravity  now — or  at  least  he 
thought  so — an  element  of  detachment  not  so  much 
disdainful  as  infinitely  remote.  He  felt  that  for  an 
instant  she  had  approached  him,  only  to  withdraw 
as  from  something  too  alien  for  contact.  She  didn't 
put  him  at  a  distance;  she  left  him  where  he  was; 
she  simply  retreated,  as  a  spirit  that  has  made  itself 
visible  for  a  space  goes  back  into  the  unseen. 

He  got  nothing  at  all  from  studying  her  face. 
Owing  to  the  preoccupation  of  Osborne  and  Emma 
with  their  breakfast,  he  could  observe  her  intently. 
For  the  hundredth  time  during  his  week  at  Winnipeg 
he  used  the  same  adjectives  to  describe  her  features. 
He  said  to  himself  that  they  were  mysterious,  pure, 
and  firm.  In  an  effort  at  analysis  he  tried  to  see  the 
firmness  in  the  quiet  set  of  the  lips  and  in  the  line 
by  which  the  cheeks,  their  mat  tint  darkened  by 
summer  sunburn,  descended  to  the  chin.  The 
purity  was  everywhere.  It  was  not  in  one  detail 
more  than  in  another— not  in  the  low,  broad  fore 
head,  with  its  waving,  simply  parted,  nut-brown 
hair,  not  in  the  straight  little  nose,  not  in  the 
nut-brown  eyes  that  seemed  to  view  you  from  a 
distance,  to  see  you  without  taking  note  of  you. 
The  purity,  he  thought,  was  not  so  much  an  ex 
pression  as  an  aura,  a  defense  that  challenged  a 
man  to  push  through  and  break  it  down.  And  as 
for  the  mystery,  he  placed  it  in  the  impression  she 
conveyed  of  coming  from  strange  countries  storied 
and  remote,  of  knowing  strange  secrets,  holy  and  pro 
fane,  of  luring  to  strange  joys  and  strange  woes  not 
to  be  expressed  in  any  of  the  terms  of  common  human 
intercourse,  of  carrying  such  a  weight  of  the  wisdom 

156 


and  pain  and  passion  of  the  world  as  to  be  incapable 
of  wholly  entering  on  the  round  of  common  human 
fellowship.  As  he  saw  her  she  stood  only  on  the 
threshold  of  such  a  life  as  he  and  others  lived — a 
strayed  princess  from  another  time — a  time  not 
modern,  nor  yet  medieval,  nor  yet  of  the  ancient 
world.  To  his  imagination  she  was  dateless,  ageless, 
soulless — but  bringing,  in  her  aloofness  and  silences 
and  slow,  lingering  glances,  messages,  and  perhaps 
rebukes,  from  far-off  spiritual  kingdoms. 

What  he  chiefly  wanted  was  to  dispute  with  her, 
to  beat  the  questions  he  felt  to  be  lying  tacitly 
between  them  out  in  words.  He  resented  her 
method  of  mutely  condemning  him.  He  wanted 
not  merely  to  convince  her,  but  to  coerce  her.  His 
attitude  was  all  antagonism — and  yet  an  antagonism 
like  that  of  the  flesh  toward  the  spirit,  crying  out 
in  one  breath  for  victory  and  self-subduction. 

All  he  could  do  was  to  watch  her.  He  noticed  her 
hands,  small  and  shapely,  exquisitely  modeled  at  the 
wrists.  He  noticed  the  way  she  ate,  with  a  leisure 
and  a  daintiness  that  reduced  eating  as  nearly  as 
possible  to  the  non-material.  He  noticed  her  dress 
—a  white  muslin  thing,  of  which  the  outline  of  the 
"basque"  defined  her  slenderness. 

"Make  it  clear  to  yourself  that  it's  a  place  in 
which  you'll  have  to  work  like  a  dog,"  Osborne  said, 
after  some  minutes  of  silence. 

"I  guess  I  can  do  that  as  well  as  any  one  else." 

"You'll  be  called  storekeeper,  as  I've  said.  But 
if  the  chief  clerk  has  to  go  out  on  the  road  you'll  have 
to  sit  at  the  big  desk  and  transact  business.  If  the 
cashier  is  called  East  you'll  have  to  keep  his  accounts. 
If  the  telegraph-boy  falls  sick  you'll  have  to  know 

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how  to  take  or  send  a  message.  If  the  train 
master  drops  dead  you'll  have  to  despatch  the  trains. 
D*  ye  see  ?  We  can't  specialize  yet  on  the  Trans- 
Canadian.  That's  why  we're  offering  to  young 
fellows  like  you — provided  you're  willing  to  work 
day  and  night,  and  not  look  for  extra  pay — the  big 
gest  opening  on  God's  earth.  Everything's  open — 
and  all  you  require  in  the  way  of  qualification" — he 
tapped  his  forehead — "is  right  here." 

Charlie  Grace  nodded  at  Osborne's  different  points 
to  express  his  comprehension  and  willingness.  He 
explained  how,  acting  on  hints  from  Emma,  he  had 
spent  the  weeks  since  leaving  Harvard  studying 
bookkeeping  and  picking  up  some  knowledge  of 
telegraphy.  Emma  had  told  him  how  this  one  and 
that  one  had  got  their  first  real  start  through  some 
chance  bit  of  usefulness  of  the  kind.  Everything  was 
grist  to  the  mill  of  the  Trans-Canadian. 

"And  there's  one  thing  more,"  Osborne  pursued. 
"At  Forde  you'll  come  under  the  eye  of  a  man  who 
can  be  to  you  like  God.  Your  own  fault  if  he 
doesn't  promote  you  in  time  to  something  better. 
That's  why  Mullins  will  be  so  sick.  Sophy  was 
right  there.  He  thought  that  Forde  would  be 
straight  on  the  way  to  glory.  Well,  Mullins  knows." 

Charlie  Grace  looked  steadily  at  Miss  Penrhyn. 
Her  lids  were  lowered  again,  but  at  Osborne's  words 
a  little  tremor  passed  over  them.  It  was  as  much  in 
defiance  of  what  he  took  to  be  her  judgment  as  in 
self-assertion  that  he  said,  with  a  nervous  laugh: 

"I'm  sorry  for  Mullins;    but — I'll  take  the  job." 

"Then  that's  settled.  Have  to  be  at  Forde  by  the 
middle  of  September.  Give  you  time  to  attend  to 
something  else  I  want  to  speak  about," 

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Brushing  the  crumbs  from  his  white  waistcoat, 
Osborne  got  up  and  lit  his  morning  cigar.  Emma 
and  Miss  Penrhyn  left  the  room  together.  Charlie 
Grace  remained  at  the  table,  his  chair  tilted  back 
ward  and  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  head,  as  he 
wondered  what  was  coming  next.  Osborne  in 
spected  a  line  of  Japanese  prints,  in  plain  cedar 
frames,  hung  on  a  level  with  his  own  eyes.  To  the 
younger  man,  who  had  glanced  at  them  casually, 
they  were  unmeaning  spots  of  color,  representing 
elongated  ladies  in  strange  draperies,  or  beggars  on 
lonely  mountain  roads,  or  queerly  rigged  sampans 
sailing  unearthly  seas.  He  smiled  to  himself,  as  he 
caught  Osborne's  expression  in  profile,  to  see  the 
puzzled  concentration  in  the  latter's  gaze.  He  might 
have  been  an  early  Egyptologist  trying  to  decipher 
hieroglyphics  to  which  he  possessed  no  key. 

"Got  'em  from  an  old  Japanee  at  Victoria," 
Osborne  explained,  over  his  shoulder.  "Buy  a  few 
from  him  every  time  I  go  out  there.  Doing  it  for 
years.  Lot  more  stowed  away  in  the  house  in 
Minnesaba.  Can't  make  much  out  of  'em,  and 
yet  they're  wonderful.  Know  they  are.  That's  a 
Hiroshige,"  he  continued,  pointing  to  a  line  of  foot- 
passengers  hurrying  in  a  shower  of  rain  across  a 
wooden  bridge;  "and  that's  the  best  impression — 
the  lady  with  the  embroidered  robes.  She's  a 
Utemaro.  And  that,"  he  went  on,  "is  the  rarest  of 
the  lot — that  grotesque  old  head.  Find  out  more 
about  'em  before  I've  done.  Didn't  I  understand," 
he  continued,  abruptly,  "that  you  had  some  money?" 

The  young  man  let  his  chair  descend  to  rest  on  its 
four  legs.  "I've  six  thousand  three  hundred  dol 
lars.  Don't  you  remember?  You  wrote  me  about 

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it.  You  told  me  to  sell  the  seven  bonds  that  came 
to  me  from  my  grandfather's  estate  and  deposit 
the  money  in  the  Bank  of  Montreal.  Well,  I've 
done  that." 

Osborne  turned  slowly  from  the  contemplation 
of  his  prints.  "There's  a  lot  of  land  at  the  corner 
of  Higgins  Street  and  Prince  Albert  Avenue.  Go 
and  buy  it.  Tell  Hastings  &  Hastings  I  sent 
you.  Tell  'em  you'll  give  four  thousand  dol 
lars." 

"But  I  thought  that's  just  what  you  warned  me 
against — wildcat  speculation  in  real  estate — 

''There's  another  lot  at  the  corner  of  Assiniboine 
Avenue  and  Lome  Street.  Can  get  it  for  two 
thousand.  Buy  that.  Hold  'em  both  till  I  tell  you 
to  sell.  Tell  Hastings  &  Hastings  who  y'are.  Say 
I  sent  you.  They'll  know.  Ask  for  Jimmy  Hast 
ings.  Don't  talk  to  any  one  else.  Tell  him  it's  me. 
Go  to  Andrew  Grant — the  fellow  who  was  here  the 
other  night— to  fix  up  your  title-deeds.  Find  his 
office  over  the  Royal  Alexandra  Bank  in  Main 
Street.  Tell  him  I  sent  you.  He'll  know  who  y'are. 
Don't  put  it  off.  Do  it  this  morning."  The  great 
man  strolled  to  the  door. 

"I  say,  Osborne,"  Charlie  Grace  said,  nervously, 
"you  think  it's  all  right  for  me  to  take  that  place 
away  from  Mullins,  don't  you?" 

Osborne  stopped  in  the  doorway.     "  Do  you?" 

The  young  man  spoke  aggressively.     "I  do." 

"Then  that  settles  it." 

"I  do,  because  I've  yet  to  see  any  one  who  con 
siders  any  one  else  in — " 

"  Don't  want  to  know  your  reasons.  Got  nothing  to 
do  with  me.  If  you  want  the  job  you  can  have  it. 

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All  I'm  concerned  with.  Anything  else  is  for  you 
to  fix  up  with  yourself.  No  more  to  be  said  about 
it." 

Charlie  Grace  was  not  so  preoccupied  with  the 
novelty  of  buying  land,  and  thus  taking  the  first  step 
on  his  road  to  wealth,  as  to  be  diverted  from  asking 
Sophy,  later  in  the  day,  how  she  liked  the  idea  of 
going  abroad  with  Hilda  and  Mrs.  Penrhyn.  Sophy 
shrugged  her  shoulders,  looking  up  with  big  eyes 
from  under  her  tangle  of  fair  hair. 

"Better  than  nothing,  you  know." 

"And  by  nothing  you  mean — " 

"Well,  I  can't  spend  my  life  dragging  round  the 
Northwest — now,  can  I  ?  We  leave  here  at  the  end 
of  next  month  to  go  to  Calgary,  or  Medicine  Hat,  or 
somewhere.  Then  it  '11  probably  be  Queen  Char 
lotte,  or  Victoria,  or  perhaps  home  for  a  few  weeks 
to  Minnesaba.  Then  it  '11  be  up  and  off  again.  I 
can't  go  on  like  that,  don't  you  see?  It  doesn't  give 
me  a  chance;  and  I'm  nearly  twenty-one — the  same 
age  as  you." 

"Chance  for  what?" 

Sophy  reflected.  "It's  mother's  word.  I  sup 
pose  she  means  chance  to  get  married." 

He  took  the  opportunity  to  go  to  the  point  in 
which  he  was  really  interested.  "Well,  it  hasn't  done 
Miss  Penrhyn  much  good,  has  it?" 

Sophy  twitched,  with  a  significant  expression  in 
both  her  face  and  her  shoulders.  "Oh,  well,  it 
wouldn't,  you  know." 

"No,  I  don't  know.     Why  wouldn't  it?" 

"Can't  you  see?     She  isn't  interested  in  men" 

"Not  in  any  men?" 

"Not  in  any  that  I  ever  heard  of — and  I  should  be 
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pretty    sure    to    hear.     Poor    Mrs.    Penrhyn    is    in 
despair  about  it.     She's  told  me  lots  of  times." 

"What  did  she  tell  you — exactly?" 

"Oh,  nothing — only  how  Hilda  goes  on.  I  must 
say  I  don't  think  it's  very  grateful  of  her,  if  you  want 
to  know.  I  don't  call  it  gratitude — when  Mrs. 
Penrhyn  takes  so  much  pains — to  look  at  a  man — 
who's  really  attracted  to  you,  you  know — as  if  you 
didn't  see  him." 

"Is  that  what  she  does?" 

"Can't  you  see  it's  what  she  does?" 

"I  can  see  it's  what  she  does  to  me;  but  I  thought 
I  might  be  an  exception." 

"You're  not.  I  don't  suppose  she  thinks  enough 
about  you  to  make  you  an  exception.  She's  as  good 
as  told  me  that  she  hardly  knows  you're  in  the 
house." 

"She  must  have  noticed  me,  to  tell  you  that 
much." 

"I  said  she'd  as  good  as  told  me;  and  she's  as  good 
as  told  me  by  never  mentioning  you  at  all — not  once 
in  the  whole  week  you've  been  here.  Any  other 
girl  would  have  talked  of  you  every  night  after  we'd 
gone  up-stairs." 

"I  bet  you  she  will  to-night.  She'll  want  to  tell 
you  how  mean  she  thinks  I've  been  about  Mullins." 

"Oh  no,  she  won't.  She  knows  I  think  you're  a 
pig,  and  she  thinks  so  herself.  She'll  let  it  go  at 
that.  If  she  had  anything  nice  to  say  of  you  she 
might  say  it — -she  might  do  that — but  she'd  never 
say  anything  nasty." 

"She'd  keep  that  to  herself— and  just  think  it." 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me  what  she'd  think.  Ask  her— 
and  even  then  you  won't  know." 

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With  regard  to  this,  however,  Charlie  Grace  was 
determined  to  see  for  himself.  Noticing,  toward  the 
end  of  the  afternoon,  that  Miss  Penrhyn  was  setting 
out  for  a  walk,  he  resolved  to  go  with  her. 

It  was  a  moment  on  his  part  of  special  audacity. 
The  fact  that  during  the  day  he  had  successfully  bar 
gained  for  his  two  lots  of  land  made  for  elation.  He 
felt  that  at  last  he  had  begun  to  live. 

And  yet  he  was  not  so  bold  as  deliberately  to  over 
take  her.  His  expedient  was  to  slip  out  by  another 
way,  and  after  skirting  a  few  blocks  of  the  skeleton 
town  come  upon  her  apparently  by  accident  at  a 
corner.  Through  streets  outlined  as  yet  only  by 
rough  plank  sidewalks  and  tottering  telegraph-poles, 
and  still  overgrown  with  yellow-burr  and  blazing- 
star,  it  was  not  difficult  to  keep  her  in  sight.  She 
wore  the  muslin  dress  of  the  morning,  her  costume 
being  completed  now  by  a  white  hat  with  a  touch 
of  green  in  it  and  a  white  parasol.  He  observed  that 
she  walked  with  the  smooth,  unaccentuated  grace 
that  marked  all  her  movements. 

His  stratagem  was  so  far  successful  that  when  he 
appeared  suddenly  she  greeted  him  with  a  faint  smile 
of  surprise.  Though  his  heart  had  pounded  as  he 
lifted  his  hat,  he  recovered  himself  quickly,  being 
endowed  with  the  readiness  native  to  men  with  the 
instinct  to  dominate  women.  In  the  presence  of 
others  he  was  awkwardly  conscious  of  her  superior 
ity;  but  now  that  he  was  alone  with  her  he  could 
take  the  lead. 

The  odd  contrasts  surrounding  them  afforded  an 
easy  theme  for  conversation.  They  spoke  of  the 
incongruity  between  the  straggling  young  city,  so 
raw,  so  forlorn,  and  its  imperial  hopes.  They 

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accounted  for  the  emptiness  of  the  streets  by  the 
absence  at  the  harvest  of  every  one  who  could  do 
manual  work.  They  pointed  out  to  each  other  the 
golden  wheat-fields  surrounding  the  town  like  a 
nimbus.  They  speculated  as  to  whether  Winnipeg 
could  ever  grow  into  the  rival  of  the  great  wheat- 
cities  south  of  the  border,  or  the  Trans-Canadian 
become  the  instrument  of  empire  and  civilization 
enthusiasts  dreamed  of.  They  noted  the  queer 
change  in  Osborne  Tomlinson,  his  general  develop 
ment  in  proportion  to  his  growing  success,  his 
English  tendencies,  his  incipient  connoisseurship. 
They  talked  of  Sophy,  and  the  rootless  life  she  had 
lived,  drifting  from  one  new  town  to  another,  now 
on  the  American  and  now  on  the  Canadian  side  of 
the  frontier.  Miss  Penrhyn  explained  how  she  and 
her  mother  had  crossed  the  Atlantic  on  purpose  to 
take  Sophy  under  their  wing  and  give  her  a  winter 
in  Europe.  Mrs.  Penrhyn  had  remained  at  Mon 
treal,  where  the  young  ladies  were  to  join  her,  and 
sail  for  Liverpool  as  soon  as  the  Tomlinsons'  tenure 
of  the  house  in  Winnipeg  was  ended. 

They  came  to  the  Red  River.  It  ran  through  so 
deep  a  cutting  that  the  water  was  not  visible  till 
they  were  actually  on  the  brink.  On  reaching  the 
middle  of  the  bridge  they  paused  to  look  at  a  small 
steamer  rounding  the  curve  below  them,  between 
the  city  proper  and  St.  Boniface.  The  paddle- 
wheel  was  at  the  stern,  and  as  the  little  craft  thrashed 
its  way  along  it  trailed  a  series  of  gleaming  cascades 
behind  it.  Just  now  they  were  golden  cascades, 
catching  the  rays  of  the  westering  sun  across  the 
infinite  prairie. 

''I  suppose  you  think  I'm  a  brute  to  take  that 
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place    at    Forde?"    Charlie    Grace    said,    suddenly, 
plunging  into  the  subject  he   had   most  at  heart. 

She  closed  her  parasol.  She  seemed  very  erect 
and  dignified  as  she  stood  with  hands  resting  sedately 
on  the  handle  of  the  sunshade.  Glancing  back  at 
her  obliquely,  as  he  leaned  over  the  parapet  of  the 
bridge,  he  saw  her  color  faintly.  The  accident  em 
boldened  him;  it  brought  her,  as  it  were,  across  the 
threshold  and  more  fully  into  the  life  with  which  he 
was  familiar. 

"What  does  it  matter  what  I  think?"  she  asked, 
at  last.  The  low  voice  had  an  alto  richness;  the 
enunciation  the  clear  precision  of  English  rather 
than  American  ways  of  speech.  Having  reflected 
further,  she  added,  "The  only  point  of  importance  is 
what  you  think  yourself." 

"I  know  what  I  think  myself.  But  what  you 
think  matters  a  great  deal." 

"I  don't  see  why." 

"But  if  I  do  it's  the  main  thing." 

She  smiled.     "It  may  be  the  main  thing  to  you." 

"It's  the  main  thing  to  us  both,  since  it's  a  reason 
for  your  answering  my  question." 

"But  if  I  did  answer  it  what  good  would  it  do? 
Would  it  tell  you  anything  you  don't  know?" 

He  raised  himself,  wheeling  round  so  as  to  face 
her.  "Then  you  do  think  me  a  brute?" 

She  looked  at  him  mildly  for  a  second  or  two  before 
saying,  "  Perhaps  it  means  that  I'd  rather  you  drew 
your  own  conclusions." 

"I  don't  see  much  good  in  that,"  he  argued,  "when 
you're  right  here  on  the  spot  to  tell  me." 

She  smiled  again.  "  But  I  can't  see  why  I  should 
tell  you." 

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"I  can.     You'd  be  doing  me  a  kindness." 

As  she  declined  to  take  this  challenge  up,  they  left 
the  bridge  and  strolled  on  into  St.  Boniface,  passing 
a  group  of  ecclesiastical  buildings  and  continuing 
out  into  the  prairie.  All  was  gold-green.  Gold- 
green  were  the  fields  stretching  into  the  horizon  with 
an  undulation  like  that  of  the  sea.  Gold-green  was 
the  western  sky,  with  the  sun  sinking  as  if  to  the  rim 
of  the  world.  Gold-green  were  the  dragon-flies  dart 
ing  across  the  pathway. 

In  the  foreground,  on  the  edge  of  the  prairie,  was 
an  encampment  of  half-breeds,  occupying  a  stretch 
of  land  that  had  not  yet  been  brought  under  culti 
vation.  Goldenrod,  higher  and  yellower  than  any 
they  had  ever  seen,  grew  right  up  to  the  wigwam 
doors.  Blue  smoke  from  a  camp-fire,  round  which 
young  squaws  were  seated,  rose  into  the  windless  air. 
A  half-breed  woman  was  dipping  water  from  a  pool 
edged  with  prairie-clover  and  magenta  fireweed.  A 
red-tailed  hawk  circled  overhead,  and  from  some 
where  near  by  came  the  tsip-tsip  of  a  yellow  warbler. 
Hobbled  horses  were  grazing.  A  team  of  tired  oxen 
fed  while  their  driver  lay  under  the  wagon  and 
smoked.  Farther  away  cattle  were  being  driven  in 
for  milking.  Beyond  the  camp  the  brown  roofs  of  a 
row  of  barracks,  above  which  the  Union  Jack  hung 
lazily,  made  a  straight  line  against  the  sky.  Still 
farther  in  the  distance  long  trains  of  ox-carts  were 
coming  in  from  the  country  with  a  low  moan  of 
creaking  wheels.  A  procession  of  Oblate  nuns 
could  be  seen  on  their  way  to  a  prairie  shrine,  of 
which  the  bell  was  tinkling  the  "Angelus." 

Miss  Penrhyn  and  Charlie  Grace  came  to  a  stand 
still  not  far  from  the  encampment. 

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"It's  all  gold,"  the  young  man  laughed;  "all 
money." 

"That's  the  pity  of  it,  isn't  it? — that  it  has  to  be 
taken  so." 

"How  else  would  you  take  it?  It's  been  waiting 
here  for  eons  of  years  just  for  this — that  we  in  our 
day  should  come  and  make  money  out  of  it." 

Her  brown  eyes  sought  his  frankly.  "Is  that  all 
you  think  of? — making  money?" 

"It's  all  I'm  going  to  think  of — for  a  long  time  to 
come.  I  have  thought  of  other  things — " 

"And—" 

"And  I  got  left,"  he  said,  laconically. 

"Aren't  there  worse  things  in  the  world  than  what 
you  call  getting  left?" 

"You  could  probably  answer  that  question  better 
if  you'd  ever  had  the  experience.  I  shouldn't  want 
you  to  have  it — and  yet  if  you'd  had  it  you  might 
understand  me  a  little  better." 

She  hesitated  a  minute  before  saying,  "How  do 
you  know  I  don't  understand  you  pretty  well  as 
it  is?" 

"I  know  it  because  if  you  did  you  wouldn't  look 
at  me  as  you  do." 

He  half  expected  her  to  resent  this,  but  she  only 
said,  "You  mean  with  distrust?" 

He  started  slightly.  He  looked  hurt.  "I  meant 
disapproval.  You  distrust  me,  then?" 

"Doesn't  that  bring  us  back  to  where  we  were  a 
few  minutes  ago? — your  asking  me  questions  I  see 
no  necessity  to  answer." 

"But  if  I  feel  the  necessity  of  knowing?" 

"Oh,  but  you  can't.     Why  should  you?" 

The  directness  of  these  words  embarrassed  him. 

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"I  might  feel  such  a  need,"  he  said,  after  reflection, 
"without  being  able  to  explain  it.  You  do  dis 
trust  me?" 

She  seemed  to  search  for  her  words.  "Since  you 
insist  on  knowing — I  should  think  you  might  be 
unscrupulous." 

"Because  Fve  taken  the  job  Mullins  might  have 
had?" 

"That's  only  one  reason.  I  judge  from  lots  of 
little  things  you've  said  since  you've  been  here. 
You  strike  me  as  likely  to  be  the  more  unscrupulous 
because  you're  not  so  by  nature.  You  choose  to  be 
so.  You  do  it  deliberately — " 

"I  don't  call  it  unscrupulous  just  to  do  what 
other  people  do." 

"Wouldn't  that  depend  on  the  people?" 

"One  has  to  take  the  world  as  one  finds  it.  When 
I  say  people  I  mean  people  as  I've  known  them. 
And  I  fail  to  see  any  one  who  considers  any  one 
else  in  anything.  The  more  they  pretend  to  the 
less  they  do  it.  I'm  only  singular  in  being  frank. 
And  as  for  this  Mullins  business,  why,  haven't  I  a 
right  to  consider  my  family  as  much  as  he  to  think 
of  his?" 

"Your  family?" 

"My  father,  then.  I've  got  to  take  care  of  him. 
At  least,  I  shall  have,  as  soon  as  I'm  able  to  do  it. 
You  know  he's  been  kicked  out,  don't  you — that  the 
good  Christian  people  he's  served  for  thirty  years 
have  turned  him  loose  on  the  world,  practically  with 
out  a  cent?" 

Her  face  showed  her  surprise.  "No;  I  didn't 
understand  it  in  that  way.  Cousin  Emma  told  me 
he'd  resigned  St.  David's  in  order  to  go  and  work  in  a 

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factory-town  among   the  poor.     I  thought  it  very 
noble  of  him — " 

"That's  Emma's  way  of  putting  it,"  he  scoffed, 
"but  it's  not  as  noble  as  it  looks.  Under  my  father 
the  parish  was  running  down,  and  they  wanted  a 
younger  and  more  active  man.  That's  the  plain 
English  of  it.  I  don't  know  that  I  can  blame  them 
altogether.  What  I  do  blame  is  the  system — a 
system  by  which  a  man  can  give  his  life  to  a  cause 
and  be  left  in  his  old  age  without  adequate  provision. 
The  most  worldly  of  secular  concerns  would  give  an 
old  servant  a  decent  pension.  Oh  yes;  they  have 
offered  my  father  something — but  so  little  that  he's 
felt  it  more  dignified  to  refuse  it.  I  agree  with  him, 
too,  even  if  he'd  have  to  starve.  And  it's  going  to  be 
hard  with  the  poor  old  chap.  He  tries  to  make  the 
best  of  it — but  it's  no  go.  He  was  packing  his  books 
when  I  came  away.  I  wouldn't  have  left  him  only 
that  he  didn't  seem  to  want  me  looking  on.  I  can 
understand  that,  too.  You  can  let  your  heart  break 
more  easily  alone.  And  if  he  had  money  it  would 
be  different.  He  could  snap  his  fingers  at  the  lot 
of  them.  You  see,  the  whole  trouble  lies  there.  If 
he'd  had  money  I  don't  suppose  they  would  have 
turned  him  out.  You  feel  differently  toward  a  poor 
man  from  what  you  do  toward  a  rich  one.  The 
good  poor  man  doesn't  stand  a  chance  as  compared 
with  the  rich  bad  one;  and  it's  so  in  the  eyes  of 
every  one,  from  the  pope  and  the  archbishop  down 
ward.  This  is  no  new  discovery;  it's  only  new  to 
me.  What  I  want  to  guard  against  is  a  repetition  in 
my  own  case  of  what's  happened  to  my  father.  I 
want  to  be  where  others  will  be  at  my  beck  and  call 
instead  of  my  being  at  theirs,  and  so — " 
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"And  so  you  won't  allow  Mr.  Mullins  to  stand 
in  your  way." 

"Neither  Mr.  Mullins  nor  any  one  else — when  I 
can  sweep  him  out  of  it.  Since  it's  a  question  of  his 
sweeping  me  or  my  sweeping  him,  I'll  do  the  latter 
when  I  can." 

"But  there  are  people  in  the  world  who  do  think 
of  others." 

"I  may  think  of  others,  too — after  I've  got  rich. 
They  must  wait  till  then." 

"But  by  that  time  you  may  have  lost  the  capacity. 
One  can  lose  it.  I  don't  think  I  should  like  to  be  at 
your  mercy  when  you've  lived  according  to  your 
present  theories  long  enough  to  grow  rich." 

He  laughed.  "Oh,  I  should  be  at  your  mercy — 
whatever  happened." 

"Fortunately,  nothing  can  happen;  but  if  it 
could—" 

"You'd  be  afraid  of  me?" 

"I'm  afraid  of  you  now,"  she  smiled,  turning 
away  from  her  contemplation  of  the  sunset,  which 
by  this  time  covered  half  the  sky  with  rose  and  gold, 
and  beginning  to  move  back  toward  the  town. 


BOOK    II 


J 


CHAPTER  I 

CHARLIE  GRACE  never  had  a  chance  to  take 
^^  up  the  thread  of  the  foregoing  conversation 
till  he  went  back  to  New  York  for  Sophy's  wedding, 
in  1897.  During  the  intervening  years  Miss  Penrhyn 
had  remained  abroad,  while  he  continued  to  live  at 
Forde,  watching  the  prairie  station  become  a  town, 
and  the  town  grow  into  a  city.  He  was  now  man 
ager  of  the  Forde,  Regina  &  St.  Paul — one  of  the 
new  feeders  of  the  Trans-Canadian.  He  had  enemies 
who  declared  that  at  his  age  he  would  never  have 
attained  to  this  position  had  he  not  been  brother- 
in-law  to  the  great  Osborne  Tomlinson,  though  he 
didn't  lack  friends  who  pointed  to  his  success  in 
organization  and  his  capacity  for  work  as  sufficient 
reason  for  his  rise.  He  himself  took  this  kind  of 
criticism,  whether  for  or  against  himself,  with  the 
indifference  of  the  man  growing  strong  enough  to 
despise  it. 

"And  yet  I  feel,"  he  admitted  to  Emma,  during 
the  first  morning  he  spent  with  her  in  New  York, 
"as  though  much  of  the  incentive  to  work  had  gone, 
now  that  we've  lost  poor  father." 

"Poor  father!"  Emma  sighed.  "He's  better  off, 
isn't  he?" 

"I  hope  so — if  he's  anything.  He  couldn't  have 
been  worse  off,  for  an  old  man  like  him.  It  used  to 
make  my  blood  boil  to  go  and  see  him  in  that  dog- 

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kennel  at  Gregory's  Falls.  If  he  could  have  risen 
to  the  level  of  his  own  faith  it  would  have  been  some 
thing.  But  he  couldn't,  poor  old  chap.  By  the 
time  ill  luck  came  upon  him  it  was  too  late  to  make 
himself  over.  I  see  a  lot  of  that  sort  in  the  north 
west.  He  was  about  as  well  fitted  for  a  factory-town 
as  he  would  have  been  to  manage  the  Forde,  Regina 
&  St.  Paul.  He  said  to  me  one  day,  not  long  before 
he  died,  that  at  Gregory's  Falls  he  was  like  a  chapter 
of  the  Judicious  Hooker  read  out  to  a  mothers' 
meeting.  He  always  had  a  dry  kind  of  humor — 
poor  old  father.  But  that  was  it  exactly.  He  was 
the  rector  of  St.  David's  till  the  very  end." 

He  paced  up  and  down  the  long  white-and-gold 
drawing-room  of  the  house  Emma  and  Osborne  had 
taken  for  the  winter  in  one  of  the  streets  running 
out  of  Fifth  Avenue,  east  of  the  Park.  Emma  sat  in 
her  low  Louis  Seize  arm-chair,  looking  about  her 
with  pride  in  even  a  temporary  possession  of  so 
dignified  a  pied-a-terre.  Eight  years  had  rendered 
her  a  little  stouter  and  brought  some  gray  into  her 
black  hair,  but  had  otherwise  left  her  unchanged. 
As  the  wife  of  a  man  on  whom  wealth  beyond  his 
calculation  was  beginning  to  pour  in  she  made  it  a 
point  to  seem  as  little  aware  as  possible  of  a  change  in 
fortune  by  being  more  dignified,  more  composed. 

Not  having  seen  her  brother  since  the  day  of 
their  father's  funeral  over  a  year  ago,  Emma  noted 
with  satisfaction  the  degree  in  which  he  was  ful 
filling  her  early  predictions  as  to  his  appearance.  In 
calling  him  a  handsome  fellow  she  paid  tribute  to  cer 
tain  qualities  in  him  that  woman  found  disquieting, 
and  for  which  she  had  no  ready  supply  of  terms. 
Romance  would  have  said  too  much,  and  fascination 

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too  little,  for  her  meaning;  and  yet  he  had  a  way  of 
regarding  a  woman — of  regarding  her  aslant  and  from 
above — that  troubled  the  imagination.  It  was  not 
that  his  eyes  were  fine;  they  were  small,  deep-set, 
and  caverned  beneath  bushy  brows,  fair  in  color  and 
irregular  in  line;  but  in  talking  to  women,  their 
cold  blue  responded  to  some  inner  stirring  to  grow 
earnestly  intent  or  langorously  gentle  according  to  the 
mood  inspired.  It  was  a  common  thing  for  women 
to  fancy  that  he  was  wholly  or  partially  in  love  with 
them.  The  hair  was  crisp  and  fair — of  the  degree 
of  fairness  inadequately  described  as  the  lightest 
shade  of  brown — pushing  thickly  back  from  a  high 
forehead,  not  brushlike,  but  in  incorrigible  undula 
tions.  The  tan  on  the  long  face,  that  might  look 
gaunt  in  illness  or  sorrow,  was  that  of  bronze  super 
imposed  on  a  healthy  Saxon  red.  The  rector  of 
St.  David's  had  bequeathed  to  his  son  the  high- 
bridged  nose  that  Emma,  too,  sported  on  a  smaller 
scale,  though  in  the  case  of  the  son  the  thin  straight 
nostrils  quivered  at  the  touch  of  anger  or  enthusiasm, 
like  those  of  a  sensitive  horse.  From  the  rector  had 
come  also  the  drooping  compressed  mouth,  of  which 
the  young  man  tempered  the  severity  with  a  long 
fair  mustache,  pliant  enough  to  yield  readily  to  the 
brush,  and  sweep  upward  from  the  lips.  Strapping, 
straight,  clean-hipped,  clean-limbed,  strongly  built 
but  spare  of  flesh,  carrying  himself  proudly,  he 
swung  up  and  down  the  drawing-room  like  a  man 
for  whom  anything  indoors  is  too  small.  Respon 
sibility,  life  in  the  open,  and  the  habit  of  commanding 
subordinates  had  given  him,  so  Emma  thought,  an 
authority  of  manner  that  increased  his  actual  age 
by  eight  or  ten  years. 


THE     WAY     HOME 


"And  I  hear  they're  not  doing  very  well  at  St. 
David's,  after  all,"  she  sighed.  "The  new  man — 
Mr.  Bateman — is  a  good  worker,  and  yet  the  old 
families  keep  moving  away.  I've  heard  that  if 
Mr.  Bateman  goes,  as  he  very  likely  will,  they'll  try 
to  get  Rufus  Legrand.  Even  if  poor  father  had 
stayed  he'd  have  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble;  so 
perhaps  everything  has  been  for  the  best." 

Charlie  Grace  was  disinclined  to  this  cheerful 
resignation.  He  spoke  bitterly.  "I  wanted  to  put 
him  where  he  could  have  held  up  his  head  again — 
where  he  could  have  got  in  his  lick  of  revenge  on 
those  who  worked  him  out.  I  shouldn't  have  minded 
if  it  had  been  no  better  than  the  coals-of-fire  business, 
so  long  as  it  was  something.  If  he  had  only  lived 
another  year  I  could  have  managed  it,  too.  I  could 
manage  it  now.  I'd  give  a  lot  to  have  him  swelling 
it  with  me  at  the  Waldorf,  and  letting  his  enemies 
see  he  was  bigger  than  they  are.  Ah,  well!  It's 
no  use  going  over  the  old  ground  too  often.  Tell 
me  about  this  prospective  son-in-law  of  yours,"  he 
went  on,  with  a  change  of  tone.  "It  seems  queer  to 
think  of  little  Sophy  as  a  married  woman,  though, 
by  George,  she's  getting  on.  She's  twenty-eight — 
like  me.  But  I'm  nearer  twenty-nine." 

The  theme  to  which  she  was  invited  was  one  in 
which  Emma  could  display  her  gift  for  taking 
honors  lightly.  Sophy's  marriage  was  not  brilliant, 
but  it  was  satisfactory.  Mr.  Colet  was  only  a 
younger  son,  with  at  least  two  or  three  lives  between 
him  and  the  earldom;  but  Osborne  and  she,  Emma, 
had  no  desire  for  position  in  itself.  The  young 
couple  would  begin  life  at  Ottawa,  where  Mr.  Colet 
had  a  billet  under  the  government.  This  was  the 

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more  convenient  in  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tomlinson 
themselves  might  be  obliged,  for  a  time  at  any  rate, 
to  make  Ottawa  their  home.  Emma  had  hesitated 
to  break  the  news  to  her  brother  by  letter,  knowing 
how  badly  he  would  feel  about  it,  but  there  was 
every  likelihood  of  Osborne's  being  naturalized  as  a 
British  subject.  Emma  herself  was  heartbroken. 
She  wouldn't  have  minded  so  much  if  Osborne  were 
to  become  a  genuine  Englishman,  but  a  Canadian 
was  only  half-and-half.  It  was  a  matter  of  money, 
however.  Her  brother  would  see  that,  and  under 
stand  that  it  overruled  all  hesitations.  There  were 
political  reasons  why  Noddy  couldn't  become  a 
director — and  perhaps  one  day  president — of  the 
Trans-Canadian  while  remaining  a  foreigner.  It  had 
been  freely  whispered  that  his  name  would  have  ap 
peared  in  the  last  list  of  birthday  honors  if  he  hadn't 
still  been  an  American.  There  was  Billy  Short — 
now  Sir  William  Short — born  and  brought  up  on  an 
Indiana  farm!  Charlie  ought  to  see  his  collection 
of  jades.  It  was  simply  extraordinary — the  taste  de 
veloped  by  purely  self-made  men!  There  were  so 
many  instances  of  it!  Yes;  Noddy  was  still  col 
lecting  Japanese  prints,  but  that  was  not  quite  the 
same  thing,  was  it  ?  Noddy  might  be  a  self-made  man 
in  a  way — but  only  in  a  way.  He  had  had  advan 
tages  from  the  start — was  connected  with  some  of  the 
oldest  families  in  New  York — the  Penrhyns,  for  in 
stance — whereas  Billy  Short — well,  it  was  simply 
ridiculous  that  he  should  become  an  authority  on 
anything  but  locomotives.  And  a  propos — that  re 
minded  Emma — how  would  Charlie  like  eventually 
to  go  as  second  in  command  to  Mr.  Purvis  in  New 
York? 

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Charlie  Grace  came  to  a  dead  stop  in  front  of  his 
sister.  "Second  in  command  to  Mr.  Purvis  in  New 
York!" 

"Oh,  not  just  yet.  I  said  eventually.  The  old 
man  won't  have  any  one  yet.  He's  been  approached 
on  the  subject,  and  he  simply  won't.  Naturally, 
after  all  he's  done  for  the  Trans-Canadian  they  can't 
force  any  one  on  him,  can  they?  But  he  can't  go 
on  many  years  longer  alone.  Noddy  says  it  would 
be  disastrous — and  they  must  have  an  American." 

"Did  Osborne  mention  me?" 

"Not  in  so  many  words;  but  I  could  tell  by  the 
way  he  looked.  He  only  said  that  that  Sir  William 
Short  had  his  eye  on  Ellis,  and  it  seemed  to  me  a  pity 
to  let  Ellis  have  it  if — " 

"If  I  can  put  a  spoke  in  his  wheel,"  he  said,  with 
a  short  laugh. 

"Well,  could  you?" 

"I  suppose  I  could  if  I  tried.  You  can  generally 
put  a  spoke  in  any  one's  wheel  if  you  go  the  right 
way  to  work  about  it.  I've  had  lots  put  in  mine." 

"But  would  you  care  for  the  place? — New  York, 
I  mean.  You'd  have  to  play  second  fiddle  at  first, 
of  course;  but  that  would  help  you  to  get  your  hand 
in.  Poor  old  Mr.  Purvis  can't  live  forever — he  simply 
can't — and  then —  And  they  do  want  an  American." 

Charlie  Grace  resumed  his  tramp  up  and  down  the 
drawing-room,  trying  to  hold  his  head  loftily  and 
give  an  impression  of  indifference. 

"  It  would  seem  like  two-by-six,  after  the  wide  life 
in  the  north,"  he  said;  "but  I  suppose  one  would  get 
used  to  that.  I've  always  meant  to  come  back  to 
New  York  some  day — but  only  when  I'd  made  my 
pile." 

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"You're  doing  pretty  well,  at  that,  aren't  you? — 
especially  with  so  many  irons  in  the  fire." 

He  smiled  and  nodded.  "I  can't  complain — 
thanks  to  Osborne." 

"Well,  would  you  like  New  York  or  not?  I  don't 
want  to — to — to  take  any  steps — if  you'd  refuse  it 
in  the  end." 

He  considered  a  moment,  pausing  again  before 
her.  "If  you  can  do  anything  for  me,  do  it.  In  the 
mean  time  I  shall  take  care  of  Ellis,  so  that  he  sha'n't 
be  in  my  way  when  the  time  comes — in  case  I  want 
the  job." 

Emma  laughed.     "You're  just  like  Noddy." 

"I'm  just  like  any  man  who  means  to  get  on,"  he 
answered,  grimly.  "Success  is  like  warfare.  If 
you  don't  knife  the  other  fellow  he'll  knife  you. 
There's  no  sentiment  about  it,  and  no  quarter. 
And  it's  no  use  thinking  the  other  fellow  will  hold 
back  if  you  do,  because  he  won't.  For  anything  I 
know  Ellis  is  out  gunning  for  me  now  on  this  very 
business.  He  certainly  is,  if  he's  had  the  tip." 

"It's  dreadful,  isn't  it?"  Emma  said,  sympa 
thetically.  "But  so  true.  I've  often  heard  Noddy 
say  that  the  very  man  he's  tried  to  spare  is  the  one 
who'd  take  the  first  opportunity  to  let  him  have  it 
in  the  neck.  That's  Noddy's  expression,  of  course. 
It's  too  bad,  isn't  it?  But  it  has  to  be  that  way — it 
simply  has." 

Charlie  Grace  threw  himself  into  a  chair.  "It 
hasn't  to  be  that  way,"  he  declared,  harshly.  "It's 
that  way  only  because  we're  a  lot  of  cutthroats." 

"Charlie,  how  you  talk!" 

"It's  a  frightful  business,  really.  As  I  see  things, 
we're  on  the  way  to  a  reign  of  selfishness  more  ap- 

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palling  than  anything  the  world  has  ever  known.  It's 
going  to  be  every  man  for  himself  in  the  most  literal 
sense  of  the  phrase;  and  once  you  get  that  rule 
established  it  means  the  downfall  of  civilization." 

"Charlie,  how  you  talk!  It's  always  been  like 
that." 

"It's  always  been  like  that  as  a  tendency  of  which 
human  nature  was  ashamed — and  the  shame  was 
the  saving  element.  But  we're  no  longer  ashamed 
of  it.  We've  recognized  it  openly  as  the  law  of  life. 
We're  living  by  it.  And  so,  instead  of  being  men, 
we're  degenerating  into  a  race  of  wolves.  We're 
worse  than  wolves  in  that  we're  hypocrites  as  well. 
WVre  like  the  Pharisees,  who  devoured  widows' 
houses  and  for  a  pretense  made  long  prayers.  We 
may  not  make  the  long  prayers,  but  we  do  other 
things  just  as  disgustingly  insincere — and,  as  the 
Bible  says,  my  people  love  to  have  it  so." 

"But,  Charlie,  you're  doing  it  yourself!" 

He  stretched  out  his  long  legs,  thrusting  his  hands 
deep  into  his  trousers  pockets.  "Perfectly  true. 
I'm  doing  it  myself  because  we're  coming  to  a  time 
— and  by  the  look  of  things  the  United  States  will 
reach  it  first — when  the  human  race  will  be  divided 
into  just  two  sections — the  oppressors  and  the  op 
pressed.  As  I've  no  taste  for  being  the  oppressed,  I 
jump  into  the  boat  with  the  oppressors.  It's  an  act 
of  self-preservation." 

Emma  rose,  dismissing  the  subject,  as  she  said  with 
a  smile :  "  I  know  you  don't  believe  a  word  of  what 
you're  saying.  Well,  I  must  go  to  my  work.  And, 
by  the  by,  you'll  come  to  dinner  to-night,  won't  you? 
Nobody  but  ourselves,  and  Frank  Colet,  and  Mrs. 
Penrhyn  and  Hilda." 

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He  took  the  opportunity  to  say,  as  he  sat  with 
legs  still  outstretched,  "So  Miss  Penrhyn  is  still — 
Miss  Penrhyn." 

Emma  turned  in  the  doorway,  smiling  enigmatic 
ally.  "Yes;  and  likely  to  remain  so." 

"Whose  fault  is  that?" 

"Oh,  hers,  entirely.  She's  had  plenty  of  chances — 
at  least,  she  might  have  if  she  didn't  scare  people  off. 
And,  by  the  way,  if  you  should  go  as  second  to  Mr. 
Purvis  I  hope  they'll  come  back  here  to  live.  You'd 
find  them  awfully  useful.  Everything  is  open  to 
them,  even  though  they've  so  little  money.  If 
Hilda  were  to  marry  a  man  of  means  she  could  put 
him  where  she  liked  in  New  York." 

Fortunately,  she  went  before  the  slow  flush 
mounted  to  his  cheek.  He  speculated  as  to  how  far 
her  words  were  accidental — wondering  whether  she 
had  divined  the  extent  to  which  the  social  conquest  of 
New  York  had  remained  his  secret  ambition.  He 
didn't  see  how  she  could  have  divined  it,  since  he  had 
kept  the  longing  locked  in  his  own  breast;  but  she 
had  an  uncanny  power  of  reading  him.  He  was 
sorry,  too,  that  she  had  spoken  of  the  Penrhyns' 
social  influence.  He  was  sufficiently  aware  of  it 
already.  His  father's  commendation  of  years  ago, 
"No  better  blood  in  New  York,"  had  always  re 
mained  a  disturbing  recollection.  It  was  disturb 
ing  because  it  introduced  an  element  of  common 
snobbishness  into  the  realm  of  his  ideals.  Were  he 
not  obliged  to  recognize  an  element  of  common  snob 
bishness  in  himself  he  would  have  shrunk  less  from 
this  suggestion. 

As  for  Hilda  Penrhyn,  he  had  endeavored,  during 
five  of  the  past  eight  years,  to  banish  her  from  his 

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thoughts.  It  was  not  that  other  women  took  her 
place  there  so  much  as  that  into  a  life  where  so  many 
other  women  entered  he  held  it  unfitting  to  summon 
her  even  mentally.  In  this  respect  he  was  now  of  an 
age  and  in  a  position  to  judge  himself;  and  he 
judged  himself — when  he  came  to  a  frank  statement 
of  the  facts — as  weak,  susceptible,  inconstant. 

For  two  or  three  years  after  settling  at  Forde  he 
had  been  tolerably  firm  in  the  principles  by  which  he 
had  lived  hitherto.  As  a  young  man  who  had  once 
had  lofty  aims  it  had  been  a  matter  of  pride  with 
him  to  think  that  he  had  kept  the  substance  of  re 
ligion  even  in  renouncing  the  formulae.  Argument 
combined  with  the  innate  purity  of  youth  to 
strengthen  him  in  this  attitude,  till  argument  found 
itself  too  noticeably  inconsistent  with  his  other 
views  of  life.  Having  acquired  a  habit  of  doing  as  he 
pleased,  it  began  to  seem  unreasonable  to  draw  an 
arbitrary  line.  Little  by  little  he  felt  himself  drift 
ing  toward  new  conclusions  when,  for  the  first  time, 
he  fell  passionately  in  love. 

The  lady  in  the  case  was  a  dashing  Englishwoman, 
temporarily  at  Forde  while  her  husband  was  out 
on  the  survey  for  the  Forde,  Regina  &  St.  Paul. 
Charlie  Grace  grew  tired  of  his  romance  long  before 
circumstances  brought  it  to  an  end.  There  followed 
a  few  weeks  of  remorse  and  self-disgust.  The  return 
of  the  husband — a  kindly,  companionable  fellow — 
to  Forde,  with  the  necessity  of  being  on  good  terms 
with  him,  was  the  most  trying  experience  up  to  the 
present  in  the  young  man's  life.  He  took  it  so 
seriously  as  to  go  back  for  a  time  to  the  old  ways  of 
thinking.  For  two  or  three  Sundays  he  attended 
church;  and  once  or  twice  he  actually  tried  to 

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stumble  through  prayers.  He  gave  up  these  attempts 
through  sheer  uncertainty  as  to  what  he  wanted 
to  pray  for  and  from  the  dread  of  being  insincere. 

Time,  however,  healed  the  wounds  to  conscience, 
and  after  the  second  episode  of  the  sort  he  felt  fewer 
regrets.  After  the  third  he  felt  none  at  all.  After 
the  fourth  he  smiled  at  himself  for  his  former  mis 
givings.  Life  became  finally  emancipated,  free. 

But  it  was  a  freedom  in  which  there  was  no  place 
for  Hilda  Penrhyn.  He  understood  himself  clearly 
with  regard  to  her.  If  she  represented  anything  in 
his  life  it  was  adhesion  to  the  principles  he  had  given 
up.  If  he  desired  anything  of  her  it  was  capitulation 
to  his  later  ideas.  If  there  was  any  spiritual  kinship 
between  them  it  was  kinship  with  what  he  had  been 
rather  than  with  the  man  he  had  become.  He 
resented  that.  It  was  as  if  she  were  still  sitting 
in  silent  judgment  on  him,  as  she  had  judged  him 
silently  that  day  at  Winnipeg.  When  he  permitted 
himself  to  think  of  her  at  all  it  was  with  persistent 
uneasiness  to  convince  her  that  he  was  right.  So 
long  as  she  remained  unconvinced  she  was  like  his 
old  self  risen  again;  and  to  that  specter  his  antago 
nism  increased  with  time. 

That  night  at  dinner  he  found  himself  seated  at 
the  table  beside  Mrs.  Penrhyn,  who  was  unex 
pectedly  gracious. 

"It's  such  a  pleasure  to  me  to  meet  you,  Mr. 
Grace,"  she  said,  speaking  slowly,  with  some  effort, 
as  though  speech  were  a  tax  on  her  strength.  "It's 
really  one  I  never  expected  to  have.  Each  time  I 
cross  the  Atlantic  now  I  think  will  be  the  last — I 
mean  when  I  cross  this  way.  And  you  never  come 
to  Europe,  do  you?" 

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"It's  something  I  haven't  done  yet;  but  I  hope  to 
get  the  time  off  next  year,  or  the  year  after,  at 
latest." 

"You'll  find  it  a  wonderful  experience.  And  when 
you  do  come  I  hope  we  may  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you.  In  winter  we're  generally  at  Nice — the 
air  suits  me.  In  summer  we  wander,  but  dear  Emma 
can  always  tell  you  where  we  are.  Do  let  us  see 
you.  We  couldn't  do  much  to  amuse  you  beyond 
introducing  you  to  a  few  people.  But  they'd  be 
interesting  people,  of  the  right  sort.  I  can  promise 
you  that." 

It  was  impossible  for  him  not  to  glow  with  some 
inward  pride.  This  was  recognition — acceptance. 
It  was  something  more,  since  it  was  indorsement 
of  his  methods.  She  wouldn't  have  spoken  in  this 
way  had  he  not  grown  strong  and  successful,  likely 
to  grow  stronger  and  more  successful  still.  It  was 
as  though  the  great  world  were  offering  to  open  its 
gates.  In  her  casual  way  of  mentioning  illustrious 
names  those  gates  seemed  ajar  already.  A  great 
painter  had  said  this  to  her,  a  great  singer  had  said 
that,  a  great  statesman  had  said  another  thing.  To 
an  ambitious  young  fellow,  whose  obscure  youth  had 
been  followed.by  eight  years  in  the  Canadian  north 
west,  there  was  a  thrill  in  this  mental  proximity. 
It  was  the  first  taste  of  a  draught  for  which  he  had 
been  born  thirsty. 

He  began  to  understand  the  reverence  in  which 
Osborne  and  Emma  held  their  charming  kinswoman. 
If  in  no  other  way,  it  was  called  out  by  her  manner  of 
speaking  with  authority — a  gentle  manner,  slightly 
infused  with  hauteur,  like  that  of  a  regnant  queen, 
conscious  of  being  the  source  of  honor.  Moreover, 

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she  had  the  impressiveness  of  remarkable  beauty, 
fading  to  decay.  Tall,  slender,  graceful,  pale,  with 
large,  hollow,  mournful  eyes,  she  appealed  to  the 
imagination.  Out  of  the  relatively  meager  materials 
supplied  by  the  death  of  Mr.  Penrhyn  leaving  a 
small  instead  of  a  large  estate  his  widow  had  created 
a  drama  of  dethronement  that  never  failed  of  its 
effect  in  the  cosmopolitan  resorts  she  frequented. 
The  word  universally  applied  to  her  was  "interesting." 
She  felt  interesting,  too — which  was  why  she  carried 
conviction. 

"I've  often  thought,"  she  pursued,  in  her  languid 
way,  "that  if  we  ever  did  meet  I'd  tell  you  some 
thing  of  your  influence  over  Hilda.  It's  been  quite 
different  from  any  one  else's,"  she  went  on,  before 
he  had  time  to  recover  from  his  surprise.  "In  fact, 
I've  never  known  any  one  else  to  have  an  influence 
over  her  at  all." 

"But  I've  only  met  Miss  Penrhyn  a  few  times," 
he  thought  it  right  to  protest,  "at  long  intervals." 

"Yes;  but  when  you  have  met — I  never  saw  any 
one  so  changed  as  she  was  after  you  and  she  had  been 
staying  with  Osborne  and  Emma — let  me  see! — 
where  was  it?" 

"At  Winnipeg?" 

"Some  such  place.  But  I  never  saw  any  one  so 
changed—" 

"Changed— how?" 

"More  liberal — more  tolerant.  She  has  a  beau 
tiful  character,  Mr.  Grace — she  really  has — but  too 
tenacious  in  thinking  she's  right." 

"Perhaps  she's  tenacious  in  thinking  she's  right 
because  she  is  right." 

"In  a  measure  that's  true — but  one  can  push  it 
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too  far,  don't  you  think?  Hilda  never  could  see  any 
point  of  view  but  her  own  till  after — I've  often 
wondered  whatyou  could  have  said  to  her.  I  saw  she 
was  changed  as  soon  as  she  rejoined  me  at  Montreal. 
She  was  softer,  less  indifferent.  It's  been  a  great 
grief  to  me,  Mr.  Grace — her  indifference  to  every 
one.  We  know  the  nicest  people — people  who  are 
nice  by  birth  and  people  who  become  nice  by  talent— 
I'm  democratic  enough  to  acknowledge  that  there  are 
both  kinds — but  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  Hilda 
ignores  them.  She's  considered  cold — but  she  really 
isn't  cold,  she's — well,  I  don't  know  what  she  is 
— but  she's  not  cold.  She's  intense.  She's  puzzling, 
too.  But  she's  not  pliable.  She  doesn't  meet 
people  half-way.  There  have  been  so  many  who — 
if  she'd  only  met  them  half-way — 

"The  pot  of  gold  doesn't  meet  you  half-way. 
You've  got  to  go  to  the  end  of  the  rainbow  and  find 
it." 

"There's  something  in  that.  You  understand  so 
well,  Mr.  Grace.  She  really  isn't  what  she  seems  to 
be  on  the  surface — she  really  isn't.  I  wish  you'd 
talk  to  her.  Talk  to  her  often.  I  should  be  so  glad 
if  she  could  carry  your  influence  back  to  Nice. 
We  sail  right  after  the  wedding." 

Charlie  Grace  endeavored  to  put  this  injunction 
into  effect  as  soon  as  dinner  was  over.  During  that 
meal  he  had  no  opportunity  for  speech  with  Miss 
Penrhyn,  except  when  the  conversation  became 
general.  She  displayed  animation  in  talking  with 
the  fair  young  Englishman  who  was  to  marry  Sophy, 
and  she  listened  with  respect  to  Osborne's  observa 
tions  on  politics  and  finance,  but  she  betrayed  no 
sign  of  remembering  that  she  had  once  spent  a  week 

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under  the  same  roof  with  the  tall  young  man  oppo 
site,  and  that  they  had  engaged  in  conversations  that 
might  have  been  called  intimate.  On  entering  the 
drawing-room  earlier  in  the  evening  she  had  offered 
him  her  hand,  saying,  with  casual  cordiality:  "How 
do  you  do?  So  glad  to  see  you  again,"  and  had 
passed  on  to  Mr.  Colet  before  he,  Charlie  Grace, 
was  able  to  say  a  word  that  could  detain  her.  He 
noticed  at  once,  what  he  had  time  to  observe  with 
more  leisure  during  dinner,  that  eight  years  had 
ripened  into  beauty  the  charm  he  had  last  seen 
coming  into  flower,  substituting  for  young  reserve 
the  poise  of  the  woman  of  the  world.  She  wore  the 
shimmering  black  which  was  the  fashion  of  the  time, 
with  a  large  pink  rose  in  the  center  of  her  corsage. 
Thrown  into  relief  by  the  uniform  ivory  tint  of  the 
bosom,  the  throat,  the  complexion,  the  nut-brown 
hair,  and  the  nut-brown  eyes,  the  flower  was  sufficient 
in  itself  to  produce  the  effect  of  unusual  richness  of 
coloring. 

"Mrs.  Penrhyn  has  given  me  leave  to  come  and 
see  you  when  I  go  to  Europe." 

On  the  return  to  the  drawing-room  he  had  slipped 
into  a  low  chair  close  to  her  upright  one,  though 
somewhat  behind  it.  Bending  forward,  with  his  arm 
across  his  knee,  he  could  see  her  regular,  delicate 
profile  at  much  the  same  angle  as  on  the  occasion 
when  he  had  first  sat  beside  her.  She  turned  slightly 
round  toward  him  as  she  said: 

"How  delightful!     Are  you  coming  soon?" 

"I'm  coming  as  soon  as  I  can." 

"That  sounds  as  if  it  mightn't  be  as  soon  as  we 
hope." 

She  fanned  herself  slowly  with  a  large  black 
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feather  fan.  She  was  distinctly  experienced  and  self- 
possessed,  giving  the  impression  of  a  woman  who  has 
talked  to  a  great  many  men  and  regarded  them 
with  some  disdain.  He  contrasted  her  with  the 
heroines  of  his  various  romances.  He  saw  now  that 
they  had  been  primitive,  earthy,  dominated  by  a 
sense  of  sex.  Love  for  them  was  the  pearl  of  great 
price,  for  which  they  had  had  to  pay  through  all  the 
stages  of  satiety,  revulsion,  neglect,  brutality,  and 
abandonment.  With  one  or  another  he  had  lived 
through  these  phases,  following  them  sympathetic 
ally  through  tears  and  despairs,  out  to  ultimate 
consolation.  This  woman  seemed  to  know  of  no 
such  perils.  Her  smile  shot  straight  to  the  soul  of 
masculine  arts,  exposing  their  clumsiness  and  in- 
effectuality.  Her  glance  removed  her  to  a  distance. 
He  received  anew  the  impression  that  she  had  lived 
before — that  behind  her  sad  brown  eyes  were  accu 
mulated  stores  of  experience,  of  other  times,  of  other 
men,  giving  her  immunity  now,  and  power. 

To  Charlie  Grace  the  attitude  was  new  and 
provocative.  It  spurred  his  ambition;  it  roused  the 
doggedness  of  his  instinct  not  to  be  beaten;  it  gave 
to  his  intonations  the  caressing,  tempting  quality  he 
had  learned  to  used  with  advantage. 

"What  a  lot  of  practice  it  must  take,"  he  smiled, 
rather  wistfully,  "to  perfect  the  art  of  putting 
things." 

She  lifted  her  brows  inquiringly.  "The  art  of 
putting  things?" 

"As  you  put  it  just  now:  'Not  so  soon  as  we  hope.' 
You  make  it  sound  as  if  you  really  did  hope;  only 
that- 

"What  makes  you  think  I  don't?" 
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"I  was  going  to  tell  you — only  that  in  the  voice 
itself  there's  a  subtle  something,  more  expressive 
than  actual  words,  which  shows  that  you  don't  care 
whether  I  come  or  not." 

"  But  you  wouldn't  have  me  say  that — even  if  it 
were  true.  Or,  would  you?" 

"It  isn't  necessary  to  say  it  when  you  have  a 
voice  that  betrays  you." 

"In  that  case  I  need  be  the  less  careful  to  choose 
my  words." 

"Not  when  I  record  them  so  exactly.  I  remember 
nearly  everything  I've  ever  heard  you  say — " 

"That  wouldn't  be  putting  a  great  tax  on  any 
one's  memory,  would  it?" 

"No;  I  suppose  not."  He  paused,  to  give  his 
next  words  more  effect.  "They  were  things  one 
wouldn't  be  likely  to  forget.  Shall  I  remind  you  of 
some  of  them?" 

She  spoke  with  haste.  "No,  no.  It  isn't  at  all 
necessary." 

"I  see,"  he  said,  significantly.  "You  remember 
them,  too." 

"Even  if  I  don't  it's  not  worthwhile  recalling  them. 
Life  wouldn't  be  bearable  if  every  idle  word  were  to 
be  brought  up  against  one  years  after  it  was  spoken." 

"I  should  only  do  it  for  the  sake  of  making  com 
parisons." 

"Comparisons  with  what?" 

"I  should  like  to  see — I  should  like  you  to  see — 
how  different  you  are  from  what  you  used  to  be — 
more  liberal,  I  imagine" — he  tried  to  recall  Mrs. 
Penrhyn's  exact  words — "more  tolerant — as  though 
some  one  had  brought  an  influence  to  bear  upon 
you—" 

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She  laughed,  and  shook  her  head.     "I  don't  be-    » 
lieve  I'm  at  all  interested  in  that." 

He  moved  slightly  forward,  so  as  to  look  her  more 
directly  in  the  eyes.  "Do  you  remember  a  con 
versation  we  had  out  on  the  prairie — " 

She  pretended  to  grow  pensive.  "Let  me  see! 
Do  I?  Weren't  there  Indians  and  things — " 

"Yes;  and  a  sunset;  and  a  procession  of  nuns 
winding  along  a  path  through  the  wheat-fields; 
and  ox-teams  creaking.  And  you  said  you  dis 
trusted  me." 

She  looked  at  him  over  her  fan.     "Did  I?" 

"Yes;  you  did.  That's  one  of  the  points  I  should 
like  to  compare  notes  about.  You  said  so  then, 

and  I  think  at  the  time  you  actually  did  distrust 

» 
me — 

"If  I  said  so  I  did." 

"  But  my  point  is  this,  that  now  you  don't  distrust 
me  any  more." 

Still  leaning  forward,  with  his  arm  across  his 
knee,  he  tilted  his  long  chin  with  an  expression  that 
challenged  her.  She  continued  to  look  at  him  over 
her  fan.  "I  should  be  most  unwilling  to  con 
tradict  you,"  she  said,  gravely. 

"That  doesn't  commit  you  to  anything." 

"Why  should  I  be  committed  to  anything?" 

"Because  responsibility  is  often  not  of  our  own 
choosing.  We  can  become  the  guardians  of  other 
people's  happiness  against  our  wills.  When  that 
happens  we  are  committed  to  something,  whether 
we  like  it  or  not." 

"But  you  must  convince  me,"  she  said,  inadver 
tently,  "that  it  has  happened" 

He  felt  that  it  was  she,  now,  who  challenged  him. 
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He  took  it  as  a  sign  of  her  willingness  to  enter  into 
the  struggle  she  had  seemed  bent  on  eluding.  The 
discovery  caused  him  an  extraordinary  emotion. 

He  lowered  his  voice  to  say,  "Wouldn't  it  con 
vince  you  if  I  told  you  that  I — " 

She  sprang  up.  He  saw  that  his  tone  had  alarmed 
her.  "There's  Cousin  Emma  asking  Mr.  Colet  to 
sing.  Do  go  and  ask  him  to  choose  "The  Bay  of 
Biscay."  It's  the  one  thing  he  can  sing  without 
getting  off  the  key.  No;  I'll  go  myself.  You  may 
ask  him  in  the  wrong  way,  and  hurt  his  feelings." 

The  haste  with  which  she  had  spoken,  the  unusual 
precipitancy  of  her  crossing  the  room,  made  it 
plain  to  him  that  she  had  guessed  what  he  was  going 
to  say.  He  was  not  ill  pleased.  Though  he  didn't 
seriously  doubt  the  fact  he  had  been  on  the  verge  of 
stating,  he  questioned  the  wisdom  of  declaring  it  there 
and  then.  It  would  have  been  abrupt,  to  say  the 
least.  She  had  saved  the  situation;  she  had  saved 
him.  There  would  be  time  enough  for  what  he  had 
to  tell  her  after  he  had  taken  the  opportunity 
to  think  it  over.  Nevertheless,  as  he  watched  her 
talking  to  young  Colet  beside  the  piano  he  grew  the 
more  convinced  that  his  spirit  could  never  rest  till 
it  had  captured  that  something  in  her  which  held 
itself  aloof,  till  it  had  vanquished  the  principles 
which  were  hostile  to  his  own,  and  brought  her  into 
subjection.  For  this  stateof  mind  his  vocabulary  had 
but  one  word;  and  he  was  sure  that  he  was  right 
in  using  it. 


CHAPTER  II 

EXCEPT  to  himself  Charlie  Grace  did  not  use 
that  word  till  the  afternoon  of  Sophy's  wedding- 
day. 

Bride  and  bridegroom  had  gone,  and  of  the  com 
pany  only  a  few  of  the  old  family  friends  were  still 
scattered  about  the  fast-emptying  drawing-room. 
Mrs.  Hornblower  was  there,  large  and  imposing  in 
widow's  mourning;  Fanny  was  there  in  autumnal 
brown,  her  angularity  softened  by  the  wide  sleeves 
which  were  the  mark  of  the  middle  nineties;  Miss 
Smedley  was  there,  in  voluminous  purple,  dropping 
now  a  boa  and  now  a  muff  as  she  shambled  from 
group  to  group;  Mrs.  Furnival  was  there,  eternally 
pleased  with  the  eternal  compliment  of  looking  too 
young  to  be  the  mother  of  the  stout,  spectacled 
doctor,  fresh  from  the  hospitals  of  Paris  and  Vienna, 
who  accompanied  her;  Reggie  Hornblower  was 
there,  elegantly  condescending,  carrying  himself  with 
a  blase  stoop,  and  showing  in  the  lines  of  his  face  the 
fatigue  of  a  fashionable  life. 

He  greeted  Charlie  Grace  with  a  tired  enthusiasm : 
"Hel-lo,  old  Charlie!  Gad,  it's  good  to  see  you. 
What  you  been  doing  this  last  hundred  years?" 

Charlie  Grace  elected  to  forget  that  they  had  not 
met  since  the  afternoon  he  had  gone  to  Reggie's 
rooms  at  Beck  Hall.  He  elected  to  forget  the  cir 
cumstance  that  he  had  once  been  among  the  wrong 

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people,  since  the  fact  that  he  had  been  successful 
and  was  making  money  was  establishing  his  place 
among  the  right  ones.  He  had  everything  to  gain 
in  letting  bygones  be  bygones,  and  not  standing  too 
much  on  his  dignity.  Freddy  Furnival  joined  them, 
looking  German  and  learned  after  his  years  abroad, 
and  all  three  talked  of  old  times.  It  was,  What's 
become  of  this  one?  and,  What's  become  of  that  one? 
till  Charlie  Grace  said  suddenly,  as  he  turned  acci 
dentally  toward  Reggie,  "What's  become  of  Hattie 
Bright?" 

Reggie's  prominent  blue  eyes  blinked,  while  his 
weak  smile  might  have  been  taken  as  betraying 
embarrassment.  "How  should  I  know?  Why  the 
devil  do  you  ask  me?" 

"I  wasn't  asking  you  in  particular.  I  was  asking 
either  of  you.  Only,  Furny's  been  away,  and  I 
thought  you  might  know." 

It  was  impossible  to  carry  the  subject  further 
because  Mrs.  Furnival  fluttered  up,  taking  her  son's 
arm,  as  though  once  more  to  get  a  foil  for  her  youth- 
fulness,  while  she  lisped  to  Charlie  Grace: 

"Such  a  pretty  wedding!  I've  never  seen  a 
lovelier  bride  go  up  the  aisle  of  St.  Thomas's.  And 
it's  delightful  to  see  you  again,  Charlie,  after  these 
years  and  years.  I  hear  you've  so  much  money  you 
can't  begin  to  spend  it.  Ah,  well!  I  suppose  you 
weren't  intended  for  the  Church  after  all.  I'm  very 
fatalistic  that  way.  I  consider  that  when  things 
don't  happen  they  weren't  meant  to  happen.  But 
we  used  to  think  you  were  born  to  be  a  clergyman, 
after  you  put  that  wig  in  the  missionary  box.  They 
were  happy  old  times,  weren't  they?  I've  never 
felt  quite  the  same  since  we  moved  to  Seventy-third 

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Street,  and  no  church  can  ever  be  to  me  like  old 
St.  David's.  Not  that  I  don't  go  regularly  to  St. 
Thomas's.  I  do.  I  consider  it  isn't  the  man  we  go 
for,  or  the  people,  but  the  Church.  I'm  very  broad- 
minded  that  way.  Well,  I  must  say  good-by.  So 
delightful  to  see  you  again,  and  such  a  pretty  wed 
ding!  I've  never  seen  a  lovelier  bride  go  up  the 
aisle  of  St.  Thomas's." 

The  two  young  men  having  slipped  away,  Mrs. 
Furnival  slipped  after  them,  but  on  taking  a  step 
or  two  she  fluttered  back. 

"Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  exquisite  as  Hilda 
Penrhyn?"  she  whispered,  archly.  "I  can't  imagine 
what  the  young  men  are  thinking  of.  Can  you? 
Look  at  her  now." 

Mrs.  Furnival  having  glided  away  before  Charlie 
Grace  could  formulate  an  answer,  he  couldn't  but 
look  at  Hilda,  as  had  been  suggested.  Not  that  he 
needed  the  suggestion.  He  had  been  looking  at  her 
all  the  afternoon.  He  thought  nothing  could  have 
been  more  charming  than  the  ease  with  which  she 
assisted  Emma,  moving  about  among  the  guests,  with 
a  thought  for  every  one's  comfort,  welcoming  and 
being  welcomed.  He  was  not  blind  to  the  fact  that, 
except  for  a  few  old  parishioners  of  St.  David's,  what 
was  really  distinguished  in  the  little  gathering  was 
there  because  of  the  Penrhyn  connection.  He  re 
called  Emma's  words  of  a  fortnight  earlier:  "If 
Hilda  were  to  marry  a  man  of  means  she  could  put 
him  where  she  liked  in  New  York."  If  he  was  not 
precisely  a  man  of  means  he  was  likely  to  become 
one.  In  another  ten  years,  if  the  development  of 
the  Canadian  northwest  continued,  he  would  be 
wealthy.  He  dwelt  upon  the  phrase  "She  could  put 

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him  where  she  liked  in  New  York."  He  made  it 
clear  to  himself  that  he  cared  relatively  little  for 
social  position  in  itself:  what  he  cared  for  was  New 
York — -his  birthplace,  his  home,  his  patria. 

Never  had  he  been  so  proud  to  call  himself  a  New- 
Yorker  as  now.  It  was  the  moment  of  the  great 
city's  expansion  into  a  world  metropolis.  She  ex 
haled  success  as  a  spring  glade  exhales  perfume. 
Force,  inspiration,  triumph  were  the  constituents  of 
her  atmosphere.  One  breathed  them  in.  Talk  of 
the  energy  of  the  West!  It  was  but  the  energy  of 
children  at  play  as  compared  with  that  of  a  giant 
working  in  a  forge.  In  the  West  there  were  half  a 
dozen  interests — big  interests,  it  was  true — but  few. 
Here  there  were  half  a  million — weltering,  raging, 
burning  together,  like  passions  in  a  soul.  And  they 
were  all  his!  He  was  born  of  them.  They  were 
bone  of  his  bone,  and  flesh  of  his  flesh,  and  blood  of 
his  blood.  They  were  meant  for  him,  and  he  for 
them — not  as  one  to  come  and  go  obscurely,  picking 
up  crumbs  from  the  rich  man's  table — -they  were 
meant  for  him,  and  he  for  them,  as  honors  are  meant 
for  a  prince,  and  as  a  prince  is  the  heir  to  the  best 
things  in  the  world. 

It  was  easy  for  him  to  watch  for  the  moment  when 
not  more  than  three  or  four  guests  were  left,  and 
Miss  Penrhyn  was  tired,  to  insist  on  her  having  a 
cup  of  tea.  He  brought  it  to  her  in  the  embrasure  of 
the  large  bay-window.  As  she  sat  on  the  window- 
seat  he  put  a  little  table  before  her  on  which  he 
placed  sandwiches  and  cakes.  Having  thus  secured 
her  comfort,  he  sat  down  beside  her.  Curtains  half 
screened  them  from  the  few  people  talking  to 
Osborne  and  Emma  and  Mrs.  Penrhyn  at  the  other 

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end  of  the  room.  Owing  to  the  curve  of  the  window- 
seat,  they  saw  each  other  at  the  oblique  angle  most 
favorable  for  talk. 

"I  should  think  you'd  be  awfully  glad  to  be  back 
among  them  all  again,"  he  said,  by  way  of  a  begin 
ning. 

"It  is  pleasant,"  she  admitted,  sipping  her  tea. 

"How  would  you  like  to  come  home  for  good?" 

"I  should  like  it  well  enough,  but  it  wouldn't  suit 
mama." 

"  I  thought  you'd  say  that.  But  suppose  you  were 
to  marry  over  here?  What  would  Mrs.  Penrhyn  do 
then?" 

She  smiled.  "We  should  talk  about  that  when  the 
situation  arose." 

"Well,  why  not  talk  about  it  now?" 

"Because  the  situation  hasn't  arisen." 

"It  has — tentatively;  because  I'm  going  to  raise 
it." 

She  looked  at  him  wonderingly,  her  cup  half  lifted 
to  her  lips.  "I  don't  see  how  you  can." 

"Any  one  can  raise  a  question — for  discussion." 
Then  he  added,  daringly,  "I  shall  do  it  by  asking  you 
to  marry  me." 

There  was  a  brief  silence.  "And  when  I  say  I 
can't,"  she  smiled,  "that  ends  it,  doesn't  it?" 

"No;  because  you  must  tell  me  why  you  can't. 
/  think  you  can." 

"I've  noticed,"  she  continued  to  smile,  "that  you 
always  put  the  burden  of  explaining  things  on  me. 
You  always  have.  If  I  weren't  rather  adroit  in 
eluding  it — 

"This  time  you  shouldn't  elude  it.  I've  always 
understood  that  when  a  man  asks  a  woman  to  marry 

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him  she's  in  honor  bound  to  give  him  a  reason  for 
refusing." 

She  laughed.  "I  haven't  been  taught  that  doc 
trine.  But  since  you  insist,  I  can  give  you  a  very 
conclusive  reason.  Only  it's  such  an  obvious  one 
that—" 

"That  it's  not  worth  bringing  up.  In  that  case, 
suppose  we  leave  it  alone.  I  know  what  it  is — it's 
that  you  don't  care  for  me.  But  if  I  care  enough 
for  two — " 

She  shook  her  head.  "No  one  ever  cares  enough 
for  two." 

"If  you'd  let  me  tell  you  how  much  I  do  care!  I 
— I  love  you!" 

His  voice  dropped.  He  couldn't  help  its  taking  on 
the  caressing  tone  to  which  it  always  melted  in  saying 
just  these  words.  Perhaps  it  was  that  that  caused 
her  to  make  the  restless  movement  he  saw  pass 
through  her  frame — a  stirring  like  that  produced 
by  a  little  shock.  She  steadied  herself  by  reaching 
forward  and  taking  a  small  sugared  cake,  which  she 
only  crumbled  in  her  saucer. 

"I  should  be  the  more  sorry  to  hear  you  say  that," 
she  said,  after  what  seemed  like  long  reflection,  "if 
I  believed  it  quite  true.  I've  no  doubt  you  think  it 
true,"  she  hastened  to  add,  "only  it's  a  subject  on 
which  your  ideas  and  mine  would  be  different." 

"It's  a  subject  on  which  every  one's  ideas  are  dif 
ferent  from  every  one  else's.  And  yet  love  is  love — 

"Love  is  love;  but  in  your  love  I  fancy  there 
would  always  be  something  lacking." 

He  looked  at  her  inquiringly.  "Why  in  my  love 
in  particular?" 

"Because  it's  lacking  in  you."  She  paused  for  a 

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minute,  as  if  to  collect  strength.     Then  she  added, 
"  Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  what  it  is  ?" 

He  nodded.     "Please." 

"  It's — constancy." 

He  leaned  forward  with  a  start  of  surprise  at  her 
accuracy  of  insight.  "What  makes  you  say  that?" 

"Because  it  characterizes  everything  about  you. 
Constancy  always  implies  some  one  else  to  whom 
to  be  constant;  and  you've  made  up  your  mind 
that  you'll  sacrifice  every  one  to — to  whatever  you 
happen  to  want  to  do.  You'd  sacrifice  Cousin 
Osborne  if  he  came  in  your  way.  Wouldn't  you? 
Tell  me,"  she  went  on,  with  a  heightening  of  anima 
tion;  "suppose  a  situation  were  to  arise  in  which  his 
interests  and  yours  were  in  conflict.  What  would 
you  do?  Would  you  let  a  sense  of  obligation  to 
him — or  a  sense  of  anything — weigh  with  you  to  give 
him  the  preference?" 

"Let  us  assume  that  I  wouldn't.  Osborne 
wouldn't  expect  me  to." 

"That's  begging  the  question.  I'm  asking  what 
you'd  be  prompted  to  yourself." 

"I  might  be  prompted  to  one  thing,  and  yet 
actually  do  another." 

She  put  down  her  cup,  and  sat  with  hands  folded. 
"That's  just  it.  Your  instincts  would  be  to  be 
loyal;  but  your  theory  of  life — " 

"My  theory  of  life,"  he  broke  in,  quickly,  "would 
be  not  to  try  to  live  by  a  code  which  the  rest  of  the 
world  has  abandoned.  That's  too  one-sided  to  be 
fair.  It's  all  very  well  for  a  woman  who  hasn't  got 
to  get  down  in  the  ditch  and  fight  to  live  in  a  palace 
of  dreams.  But  a  man  can't — not  if  he  wants  to  be 
successful." 

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"It  depends  on  what  he  means  by  success.  Just 
now,"  she  added,  "I  must  go  and  say  good-by  to 
Miss  Smedley." 

She  left  him,  but  he  continued  to  sit  where  he  was. 
Looking  meditatively  at  the  floor,  he  tried  to  appraise 
the  situation.  Of  one  thing  he  felt  sure — nothing 
she  had  said  as  yet  was  final.  She  might  be  his  old 
self  risen  again;  but,  if  so,  she  spoke  with  a  voice 
in  which  he  detected — or  thought  he  detected — a 
craving  to  be  stifled. 

He  took  it  as  in  his  favor  that  when  Miss  Smedley 
had  gone  Hilda  came  back  and  sat  where  she  had 
been  sitting  before.  There  was  no  reason,  he 
argued,  for  her  return,  unless  she  was  willing  to  go 
on  with  the  subject. 

"It  depends  on  what  he  means  by  success,"  she 
repeated,  taking  up  the  argument  where  she  had 
dropped  it. 

He  was  determined  to  be  outspoken.  "What  / 
mean  by  it,"  he  declared,  "is  what  the  majority  of 
Americans  mean  by  it — material  success — in  other 
words,  success  in  making  money.  For  us  any  other 
meaning  to  the  word  is  exceptional — and  rather 
strained.  As  I  understand  it,  material  success  is 
the  one  point  in  which  we  lead  the  world.  Our 
supremacy  in  anything  else  can  be  challenged — but 
not  in  that.  You  can  hardly  blame  me  for  being 
typical  of  my  own  countrymen,  can  you?" 

"I  don't  presume  to  blame  you;  I'm  only  pointing 
out.  You  ask  me  for  a  reason  for  not  marrying  you, 
and  I  give  you  one.  I  don't  say  it's  the  only  reason; 
but  since  it's  sufficient — " 

"I  don't  think  it  is  sufficient.  It  wouldn't  stand 
for  a  minute  if  you  really  cared  for  me." 

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She  colored  slightly.  "As  to  that  I  must  leave 
you  to  make  your  own  deductions." 

He  grew  still  more  daring.  "That's  just  what 
I'm  doing;  and-  the  first  deduction  I  make  is  that 
you  do  care  for  me — a  little." 

"I  should  be  sorry  to  enter  into  a  discussion  on 
that  point,"  she  said,  with  one  of  her  slow  dreamy 
smiles;  "but  I'm  willing  to  say  this  much — that 
even  if  I  cared  more  for  you  than  I  do  I  shouldn't 
marry  you.  I  should  be  afraid  of  you.  I  should 
be  afraid  that  if  I  ever  became  burdensome  to  you — 
or  if  you  ceased  to — to — to  have  the  same  feeling  for 
me — or  if  you  came  to  care  for  any  one  else — " 

"But  you  wouldn't  expect  me  to  do  that?" 

"That's  exactly  what  I  should  expect — and  if  it 
happened  you'd  want  to  sweep  me  out  of  your  way 
as  you've  swept  others — and  I  shouldn't  yield  to 
you.  That's  where  the  trouble  would  lie.  It 
wouldn't  be  altogether  with  you.  It  would  be 
largely  with  me.  If  I  were  meeker  or  more  submis 
sive  it  might  be  different.  But  I'm  not  submissive — 
I'm  not  meek — I  don't  easily  bend  to  other  people's 
wishes  or  take  their  opinions — and  so  I've  made 
up  my  mind — or  practically  made  up  my  mind — that 
I'm  the  kind  of  woman  who'd  better  not  marry 
at  all." 

"If  that's  the  only  thing — "  he  began,  with  a 
laugh. 

"But  it's  not  the  only  thing,"  she  declared,  rising, 
and  standing  before  him.  "It's  far  from  the  only 
thing- 

As  he  got  to  his  feet  he  showed  some  of  the  signs 
of  exasperation  habitual  with  a  man  to  whom  oppo 
sition  is  rare.  "And  whatever  the  other  things 

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are,  they  all  merge  into  this — -that  you — distrust  me. 
I'd  begun  to  hope  that  you'd  got  over  that.  I've 
tried  to  make  you  say  it.  But  I  see  now— 

She  turned  away  from  him,  gazing  across  the 
room,  which  but  for  themselves  was  empty.  "I 
can't  help — perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  say  it — you're 
offended  already,  and  you  may  be  more  so — but 
I  can't  help  distrusting  a  man  who's  done  what 
you've  done — given  up  high  aims  in  life  for  lower 
ones.  I  can't  help  it." 

He  let  that  pass.  "But,  even  so,  there's  a  dif 
ference  between  distrust  and — dislike,"  he  insisted. 

"I  admit  the  difference — and  yet  for  my  purpose 
they  come  to  the  same  thing." 

"That  is,  that  you  won't  marry  me." 

"That  I  can't." 

"Does  that  distinction  mean  that  you  would  if 
you  could?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  another  dim,  slow  smile. 
"I  think  I've  said  all  there  is  to  say  for  the  moment. 
I  must  bid  you  good-by.  I'm  very  tired.  Cousin 
Emma  may  want  me,  too." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  which  he  took  and  retained. 
His  tone  softened.  "How  long  do  you  think  I've 
loved  you?" 

She  tried  to  withdraw  her  hand,  but,  finding  this 
impossible  without  a  struggle,  let  it  remain  in  his. 
"Please  don't  ask  me  such  questions  as  that." 

"I've  loved  you  since  the  first  moment  I  ever  saw 
you.  That  was  twelve  years  ago — at  a  performance 
of  'Carmen.'  Do  you  remember?  It  was  in  the 
afternoon — " 

"No;  I  don't  remember — or  rather  I  think  I  do. 
Please  let  me  go." 

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"I've  loved  you  ever  since  then.  I  shall  let  you 
go  when  I've  told  you  the  rest  of  what  I  have  to  say. 
I've  loved  you  ever  since  then — and  I  shall  go  on 
loving  you."  He  grew  dominating,  combative.  "I 
shall  go  on,  because  I  see  that  you'll  come  to  it,  too. 
You  may  go  back  to  Nice — but  you'll  think  of  me 
when  you're  gone.  When  some  one  else  asks  you  to 
marry  him  you'll  think  of  me — and  you'll  say  'No' 
to  him.  Lots  of  men  must  have  asked  you  to  marry 
them  during  the  last  eight  years — 

She  tried  to  disclaim  this  imputation  of  conquest. 
"Only  two — or  three,  perhaps.  Do  let  me  go. 
Please." 

"And  when  they  did  you  thought  of  that  day  on 
the  prairie — when  we  talked  together — and  you — 

"No,  no.  You're  quite  wrong.  That  had  nothing 
to  do  with  my  decision — nothing.  I  couldn't — well, 
partly  for  the  same  reason  that  I  can't  now.  I 
didn't  wholly  respect  them — any  of  them — and  I 
can't  wholly  respect  you." 

"Oh,  but  you  will." 

"If  I  do  I  may  change  my  mind" — she  tried  to 
laugh,  nervously,  freeing  her  hand  at  last — "but  not 
before." 

"That  will  be  soon  enough.  You  may  go  now," 
he  added,  with  a  gesture,  "if  you  insist  on  it — but 
I  hope  you'll  remember  that  this  is  the  beginning 
— not  the  end." 


CHAPTER  III 

A^D  yet  for  more  than  a  year  and  a  half  it  was 
the  end.  Hilda  Penrhyn  went  back  with  her 
mother  to  Nice,  and  Charlie  Grace  returned  to  his 
work  in  the  Canadian  northwest.  There  were  still 
a  few  days  before  the  separation  during  which  they 
continued  to  meet,  but  he  made  no  effort  to  repeat 
what  he  had  said  already.  Once  or  twice,  it  seemed 
to  him,  she  left  the  opportunity  open;  but  he  pre 
ferred  for  the  present  to  let  the  matter  rest  where  it 
was.  A  more  determined  refusal  might  make  it 
impossible  for  him  to  begin  again,  when  perhaps  the 
chances  would  be  more  in  his  favor. 

He  hoped  at  first  that  he  should  be  able  to  make 
his  visit  to  Europe  in  the  early  part  of  the  following 
year;  but  it  was  the  early  part  of  the  next  year — 
1899 — -before  he  managed  it.  During  the  intervening 
months  he  had  seen  several  changes,  each  in  the  na 
ture  of  an  advance.  He  had  been  moved,  for  brief 
periods,  from  Forde  to  Winnipeg,  from  Winnipeg  to 
Montreal,  from  Montreal  to  Queen  Charlotte,  and 
from  Queen  Charlotte  to  Quebec.  From  the  finan 
cial  point  of  view  his  position  on  the  Trans-Canadian 
was  becoming  secondary  to  his  other  interests, 
though  his  other  interests  were  best  served  by  his 
connection  with  the  great  railway  system  that  was 
so  remarkably  fulfilling  the  dreams  of  its  promoters 
and  helping  to  create  a  new  empire.  In  the  end  it 

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was  a  mission  on  which  Osborne  Tomlinson  sent 
him  to  London  that  brought  him  within  reach  of 
Nice. 

It  was  a  shock  to  him  to  find  the  woman  round 
whom  his  dreams  had  so  long  centered  living  in 
restricted  quarters  in  a  hotel  of  the  second  or  third 
order.  Not  till  he  entered  its  modest  door  did  the 
realization  ever  come  home  to  him  that  Mrs.  Penrhyn 
was  actually  poor,  with  a  genuine,  undecorative 
poverty.  He  had  always  fancied  "living  abroad," 
"spending  the  winter  on  the  Riviera,"  to  be  essen 
tially  conditions  of  gaiety  and  elegance.  In  his  own 
expensive  hotel  on  the  Promenade  des  Anglais  there 
was  everything  to  bear  out  this  impression;  but, 
while  he  expected  to  find  his  friends  less  showily 
installed,  he  was  not  prepared  for  the  extreme  sim 
plicity  of  their  surroundings.  As  in  a  little  voiture 
de  place  he  drove  back  from  the  Promenade  with  its 
glittering  sea,  its  leisured  crowds,  and  its  air  of 
extravagant  cosmopolitan  expenditure,  through 
mean  and  narrow  streets,  to  stop  at  last  before  a 
long  white,  barracklike  hotel,  noticeably  unpre 
tentious,  he  thought  at  first  that  he  had  made  a 
mistake  in  the  address.  A  spacious  garden,  stately 
with  palms  and  gay  with  geraniums  and  mimosa, 
offered  some  consolation  to  the  eye,  but  this  pleasing 
impression  was  dispelled  on  entering  the  hall,  with 
its  carpet  of  matting,  its  worn  wicker  tables  and 
chairs,  and  its  odor  of  stale  cigarettes. 

All  at  once  Charlie  Grace  felt  himself  swept  by  a 
wave  of  indignation  that  the  woman  whom  his  fancy 
saw  as  almost  too  exquisite  for  earth  should  be 
forced  to  take  refuge  in  this  second-rate  milieu.  His 
protective  instincts  were  stirred  as  they  had  not 

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been  since  his  father  died.  Springs  of  tenderness 
were  suddenly  opened  up  that  had  been  sealed  since 
the  day  his  mother  was  laid  to  rest  at  Horsehair 
Hill.  For  the  first  time  he  thought  of  Hilda  Penrhyn 
as  needing  him  as  much  as  he  needed  her.  The  idea 
was  curiously  new  to  him.  It  was  part  of  the 
egoism  fostered  by  his  manner  of  life  during  the  past 
nine  or  ten  years  that  in  desiring  her  his  object 
had  been  first  of  all  to  get  something  for  himself. 
She  was  worth  possession.  She  was  an  object  to  be 
won  with  the  patience  and  struggle  that  had  gone 
into  his  winning  of  other  things  on  which  his  heart 
was  set.  While  he  knew  she  would  be  of  help  to  his 
life,  it  had  scarcely  occurred  to  him  that  he  could  be 
of  help  to  hers.  Now  that  he  perceived  it,  he  was 
thrilled  with  a  joyous  sense  of  power.  If  he  ex 
pected  much  from  her,  he  could  give  her  much  in 
return.  He  could  take  her  out  of  this  lowly  setting 
and  put  her  where  she  would  shine.  He  could  spend 
money  on  her;  he  could  dower  her  with  the  privilege 
of  spending  money  on  herself.  He  could  restore  her 
eventually  to  the  soil  to  which  she  was  indigenous, 
where  she  would  be  conspicuous,  brilliant,  dashing. 
He,  too,  would  be  conspicuous,  brilliant,  dashing, 
burning,  as  a  husband  should  in  social  matters,  in 
his  wife's  reflected  light. 

On  being  shown  up-stairs  he  found  Mrs.  Penrhyn's 
sitting-room  empty.  It  was  a  small  room,  narrow 
for  its  length,  but  more  tastefully  furnished  than  the 
rest  of  the  hotel  had  led  him  to  expect.  There  were 
flowers,  books,  and  magazines.  On  an  upright 
piano  the  score  of  an  opera  lay  open.  What  specially 
caught  his  eye  were  the  signed  photographs  that 
stood  wherever  there  was  room  for  them — ladies  in 

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court  dress,  officers  in  uniform,  as  well  as  faces 
familiar  to  him  through  the  illustrated  papers,  or  from 
visits  to  the  theater  and  the  opera.  He  had  a  re 
newal  of  that  satisfaction  in  knowing  people  who 
knew  the  great  of  which  he  was  ashamed.  One  side 
of  his  mind  took  pleasure  in  the  thought  that  he, 
too,  might  some  day  come  to  know  the  great  even 
while  the  other  treated  the  ambition  with  disdain. 

Presently  Mrs.  Penrhyn  entered  from  the  adjoin 
ing  room  alone.  He  noticed  at  once  that  her  languid 
grace  was  more  languid  than  it  had  been  eighteen 
months  before.  Her  mournful  eyes  were  more 
pathetically  mournful.  She  was  paler,  too— so  pale 
as  to  seem  waxlike,  diaphanous.  It  was  appar 
ently  an  effort  for  her  to  hold  out  her  hand,  to 
speak,  or  to  smile.  He  thought  she  did  all  three 
with  the  gasp  of  relief  that  welcomes  rescue.  The 
high  comedy  of  dethronement  had  apparently  been 
played  to  the  end,  giving  place  to  a  worn,  pitiful 
reality. 

"Hilda  isn't  at  home,"  she  explained,  when  they 
were  seated  beside  a  small  fire  of  gnarled,  semi- 
combustible  olive  logs.  She  spoke  with  difficulty — 
a  catch  in  her  breath.  "Yes;  she  knew  you  were 
coming,  but  she  had  an  engagement  at  the  English 
Church.  She  does  a  great  deal  of  work  there. 
Canon  Langhorne  thinks  her  invaluable.  I  like 
her  to  do  it,  because  it's  an  interest  for  her;  and  life 
as  we  live  it  here  lacks  interests." 

"But  I  thought  that's  just  what  it  didn't.  I 
thought  it  was  all  so  gay— and  picturesque — and 
romantic — 

She  smiled  wearily.  "It  would  be  for  you — for  a 
season  or  two.  But  you'd  grow  tired  of  it.  It's 

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like  always  seeing  the  same  play.  It  palls  on  you 
in  the  end,  however  beautiful  the  setting  or  perfect 
the  acting.  I  don't  mind  for  myself  so  much.  I  do 
mind  for  Hilda.  I  used  to  hope — for  something 
quite  different  for  her." 

He  resolved  to  speak  plainly  while  he  had  the 
chance.  "She  could  have  something  quite  different 
now.  I'd  give  it  to  her — if  she'd  take  it." 

She  pressed  her  handkerchief  to  her  lips.  "I  can't 
help  wishing  she  would." 

"Well,  wouldn't  she?" 

She  evaded  the  question.  "You  see,  if  I  were 
taken  she'd  be  so  desperately  alone — and — and  part 
of  my  income  is  only  a  life  interest — so  there'd  be 
that,  too — and — and  other  things.  I  can't  help 
telling  you,  Mr.  Grace- — because — well,  because  you 
do  seem  nearer  to  us  than  any  one  else — through 
Osborne  and  Emma — especially  over  here — where 
every  one  is  nice — only  strangers — " 

The  broken  appeal  touched  him.  It  was  as 
much  for  the  sake  of  Mrs.  Penrhyn  and  her  daughter 
as  for  his  own  that  he  said,  earnestly: 

"Don't  you  think  she  would  now?  I  asked  her 
before — perhaps  you  didn't  know  it — " 

"I  guessed  it." 

"And  she  wouldn't.  But  I've  given  her  all  this 
time  to  think  it  over.  If  in  the  mean  while  she  had 
preferred  any  one  else  she'd  have  been  free  to  take 
him;  but  since  she  hasn't  done  that — 

"I'll  tell  you  candidly— I  can't  make  her  out, 
Mr.  Grace.  And  yet  I  should  say  that  if  there  was 
any  one,  it  might  be  you." 

He  felt  himself  coloring  while  he  said,  "Do  you 
mean  that  she  ever  speaks  of  me?" 

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"Not  often;  but  when  she  does—  She  paused, 
listening.  "I  think  I  hear  her  now.  She's  talking 
to  some  one  in  the  hall.  She  said  she'd  be  back  for 
tea — and  that  I  was  to  keep  you." 

Three  weeks  passed,  however,  before  Charlie 
Grace  ventured  to  renew  the  subject  that  lay  silently 
between  Hilda  Penrhyn  and  himself.  He  was  not 
without  a  motive  in  holding  back,  thinking  it  wise 
that  she  should  grow  used  to  his  presence,  used  to  his 
usefulness,  before  he  risked  anything  further.  He 
waited,  therefore,  till  the  evening  before  the  date  he 
had  fixed  tentatively  as  that  of  his  departure  for 
Italy.  If  she  accepted  him  he  would  postpone  his 
going,  or  would  go  and  come  back.  If  she  persisted 
in  refusing  him  the  journey  to  Italy  would  be  an 
excuse  for  taking  himself  away. 

He  had  dined  with  Mrs.  and  Miss  Penrhyn  in  the 
restaurant  of  their  hotel,  coming  out  for  the  demi- 
tasse  to  a  terrace  overlooking  the  garden.  Fearing 
the  night  air,  Mrs.  Penrhyn  had  gone  to  her  room. 
It  seemed  to  him  there  was  an  element  of  daring  in 
the  way  in  which  Hilda  led  him  to  a  table  at  the  end 
of  the  terrace,  remote  from  any  of  the  groups  that 
had  preceded  them  from  the  restaurant.  Possibly, 
he  reflected,  she  foresaw  what  was  coming,  and 
was  eager  to  get  it  over.  As  to  that,  however, 
he  could  only  guess,  since  she  was  proof  against 
self-betrayal.  Not  once  during  his  stay  in  Nice 
had  she  seemed  to  remember  that  he  had  already 
asked  her  to  marry  him,  and  would  probably  do 
so  again. 

The  night  was  balmy  and  faintly  scented  with 
flowers.  Over  the  flat  roofs  of  the  neighboring 
houses  a  full  golden  moon  was  coming  up,  throw- 

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ing  palms  and  mimosas  into  relief  against  patches  of 
white  wall  and  deepening  the  shadows  at  the  bottom 
of  the  garden.  From  a  near-by  hotel  came  the 
tinkling  of  mandolins,  with  the  voices  of  strolling 
Neapolitan  singers.  It  was  natural  that  the  conversa 
tion  should  turn,  as  it  had  turned  already,  on  the 
journey  he  was  to  begin  next  day. 

"So,  after  you've  done  Italy,"  she  said,  in  the 
effort  to  make  dialogue,  "you'll  go  on  to  England 
by  way  of  Vienna  and  Munich.  Is  that  it?" 

"That's  it,"  he  replied,  with  seeming  tran 
quillity;  "unless  I  come  back  here." 

She  picked  up  the  scarf  she  had  brought  out  with 
her  and  threw  it  over  her  shoulders.  "Wouldn't  it 
be  a  pity  to  do  that,  now  that  you  know  this  coast 
so  well?" 

"I  shouldn't  do  it  for  the  coast.  It  would  only 
be  in  case  you — you  needed  me." 

Having  thrown  this  bomb  into  her  camp,  he  puffed 
quietly  at  his  cigar. 

"You're  very  kind,"  she  managed  to  say,  after 
brief  hesitation;  "but  I  don't  think  there's  any 
likelihood  of  that." 

"I  do,"  he  said,  calmly.  "I  think  you  need  me 
now.  You're  forlorn.  You're  lonely." 

She  put  her  half-empty  coffee-cup  on  the  little  iron 
table  painted  green  that  stood  between  them.  "I 
had  no  idea  you  were  such  a  psychologist." 

"You  have  no  idea  of  a  good  many  things  I  can  be 
till  you've  tried  me." 

"Oh,  but  I  have  tried  you  in  some  things — " 

"And  found  me  wanting,"  he  said,  quickly,  with 
suspicion.  "  Is  that  what  you  were  going  to 


say?' 


209 


"I  wasn't  going  to  say  it;  but  since  you've  done 
that- 

"You'll  admit  that  it's  true." 

"I'll  admit  that  it's  true,"  she  said,  slowly,  "in 
certain  things — that  seem  to  me  vital." 

He  threw  himself  back  in  his  seat  rather  wearily. 
"  So  that  we  come  back  to  the  same  old  story.  We're 
still  there." 

"That  depends  on  you.     We're  still  there — if  you 

?> 
are. 

"That  is,  if  I  haven't  repented  and  changed. 
Well,  I  haven't." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I've  not  asked  you  any 
thing  about  that." 

"No;  but  I  wish  you  would.  We  should  be  play 
ing  then  with  the  cards  on  the  table." 

"Oh,  but  I  didn't  know  we  were  playing  at  all." 

"/  am,"  he  asserted,  with  emphasis. 

"But  it  takes  two  to  make  a  game — unless  you 
enjoy  solitaire." 

He  looked  hurt.  "Surely  this  is  no  more  than 
fencing  with  words—" 

"There's  no  harm  in  that,  is  there?  One  fences 
to  protect  oneself — " 

"From  danger;  yes.  But  I'm  offering  you 
safety.  I  wish  you  could  believe  in  me." 

"I  do  believe  in  you — up  to  a  point." 

"Up  to  what  point?" 

"That's  not  easy  to  say.  It  isn't  necessary, 
either.  The  fact  that  there's  a  point  at  all  is  the 
only  thing  of  importance." 

He  brushed  this  argument  away.  "That's  not 
important.  There's  always  a  point — to  every  one's 
belief  in  every  one.  No  one  has  absolute  belief  in 

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any  one  else.  That's  because  we're  human.  There's 
even  a  point  to  my  belief  in  you.  Do  you  want  to 
know  where  I  put  it?" 

She  laughed.     "I  don't  think  I  do." 

He  leaned  forward  again,  his  arms  crossed  on  the 
table,  the  cigar  smoking  between  his  fingers.  "I 
think  I'll  tell  you,  just  the  same.  I  know  you're 
good — very  good — almost  too  good;  and  yet,  like 
many  good  people,  you  lack  charity  in  your  judgment 
of  others." 

She  weighed  this  for  some  time  in  silence.  "That's 
probably  true,"  she  admitted.  "But  there's  this 
difference  between  my  shortcomings  and  yours. 
When  I  have  to  recognize  a  fault  in  myself  I'm  sorry 
for  it,  and  I  try  to  correct  it — I  really  do.  Whereas 
you  glory  in  yours  with  a  kind  of  cynicism.  Having 
started  out  to  win,  by  fair  means  or  foul,  you're 
proud  of  having  done  it." 

"Not  proud,"  he  corrected.  "I'm  only  satisfied 
to  have  fulfilled  to  some  extent  what  the  world  has 
required  of  me.  I  didn't  set  the  test,  and  so  I'm 
not  responsible  for  it.  My  part  has  been  limited  to 
meeting  it." 

"To  meeting  it — by  fair  means  or  foul." 

"There  are  no  foul  means  nowadays.  Every 
thing  has  become  like  love  and  war — all's  fair.  I 
don't  see  why  you  should  expect  me  to  live  by 
standards  no  one  else  is  conforming  to." 

"As  far  as  I  have  a  right  to  expect  anything  of 
you  at  all  I  limit  myself  to  being  sorry  you're  not 
true  to  yourself.  You  were  meant  for  such  high 
things — " 

He  broke  in  with  an  impatient  gesture.  "That's 
only  the  legend  that  has  come  down  to  you  from 

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my  childhood.  You've  heard  it  from  Emma — or 
some  one  else.  I  get  awfully  sick  of  it,  even  though 
it  began  with  the  dreams  of  my  mother.  She  was  a 
saint — the  only  saint  I've  ever  known,  except  you — 
and  you're  different.  She  wanted  me  to  go  into  the 
Church,  as  it's  called — but  she  didn't  know  me  as  I 
really  am.  Let  me  tell  you  once  for  all  that  there 
never  was  a  time  when  money  and  the  instinct  for 
making  it  weren't  the  first  things  in  my  thoughts. 
As  far  as  my  memory  goes  back  I  can  see  myself 
fighting  against  the  fact  of  being  poor.  When  I 
decided  to  strike  out  into  the  world  for  myself — and 
make  money  if  I  could — I  didn't  fall  away  from 
any  imaginary  call  to  higher  things.  I  assure  you 
I  didn't.  I  gave  up  the  unreal  for  the  real;  and 
if  ever  I  was  true  to  myself,  as  you  put  it,  it  was 
then." 

He  drew  two  or  three  puffs  from  his  cigar,  waiting 
for  her  to  say  something.  Seeing  her  brown  eyes 
rest  on  him  in  distant  silent  wonder,  he  went  on 
energetically. 

"I  wanted  to  be  respected;  I  wanted  to  be  free. 
No  poor  man  is  ever  respected.  The  saint  and  the 
sinner  despise  him  alike.  The  Christian  and  the 
heathen  despise  him.  The  priest  and  the  bishop 
despise  him.  You  despise  him  yourself.  No,  no; 
you  needn't  protest.  You  despised  me — till  I  did  the 
things  you  disapprove  of  and  made  money.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  you'd  never  have  admitted  me  to  the 
equality  with  yourself  I'm  enjoying  at  this  minute 
if  I  hadn't  done  it.  Would  you,  now?  You  may 
condemn  me  on  some  fine-spun  theory,  but  in  your 
heart  of  hearts  you  respect  me  as  you  would  never 
have  respected  me  if  I'd  been  a  poor  devil  of  a 

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clergyman,  living  on  a  pittance,  and  knocked  about 
from  pillar  to  post.  A  poor  man  is  not  a  free  man. 
The  rich — and  those  who,  like  yourself,  belong  to 
the  side  of  the  rich — make  him  either  a  rebel  or  a 
reptile.  I've  no  taste  for  being  either — and  yet  you 
blame  me." 

For  a  few  minutes  she  kept  silence,  sitting  with  face 
partly  averted  from  him,  in  order  not  to  look  into 
his  eyes. 

"There  is  some  truth  in  what  you  say,"  she  began, 
at  last,  "even  as  concerns  me;  but — " 

"Then  why  not  take  me  as  I  am?"  he  begged, 
vehemently.  "I  love  you.  I've  loved  you  all  these 
years.  I've  waited  for  you — 

"You  mustn't  make  me  responsible  for  that," 
she  said,  hurriedly. 

"I  don't  make  you  responsible  for  anything.  I 
want  to  take  every  possible  burden  on  myself. 
I'm  equal  to  it,  too — and  the  more  equal  to  it  because 
I've  never  cared  for  any  woman  as  I  care  for  you." 

She  raised  her  head,  quickly.  "But  you  have 
cared  for  other  women?" 

"Not  like  this.  It  wasn't  the  same  thing.  It 
was  nothing  but — " 

"I  don't  want  to  know  what  it  was.  But  you 
did  care — and  you  went  on  and  cared  again — for 
some  one  else."  She  rose  quietly.  "Come  down 
into  the  garden.  We  can  talk  there  more  easily." 

When  they  had  descended  the  steps  from  the 
terrace  she  surprised  him  by  taking  his  arm.  They 
followed  a  graveled  path  leading  into  the  com 
parative  obscurity  of  the  palms  and  mimosas. 

"You  must  understand,"  she  said,  at  once,  "that 
your  having  cared  for  other  women  has  only  this  to 

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THE     WAY     HOME 


do  with  me,  that  what  has  happened  already  may 
happen  again— would  probably  happen  again.  You 
tell  me  you've — you've-— thought  of  me  for  years, 
and  yet  that  didn't  keep  you  from — " 

"You  weren't  there,"  he  objected,  hotly.  "You 
were  thousands  of  miles  away.  I  didn't  know  I 
should  ever  see  you  again.  I  was  lonely — in  lonely 
places — and  young — " 

"  Please  don't  explain.  I'm  only  taking  what  you 
say  as  an  illustration  of  the  future  from  the  past. 
What's  happened  once — more  than  once — would  be 
all  the  more  likely  to  recur  because — because  I'm 
older  than  you." 

He  pressed  the  hand  on  his  arm  close  to  his  side  as 
he  said,  impatiently,  "In  everything  that's  essential 
I'm  much  older  than  you." 

"You  may  feel  so  now.  But  ten  years  hence — 
when  you'll  still  be  a  young  man — and  I'm  growing 
to  be  a  middle-aged  woman — " 

"There's  nothing  in  that  argument,"  he  declared, 
scornfully.  "It's  been  refuted  by  happy  marriages 
over  and  over  again.  You've  some  other  objection 
in  the  back  of  your  mind,  and  you're  not  telling 
me  frankly.  Is  it  that  you  don't  want  to  go  and 
live  in  the  northwest?  Because  if  you  don't — 

"No;  it  isn't  that.  Except  for  mama,  I  shouldn't 
care  where  I  lived." 

"If  you  do  object  to  the  northwest  I  may  as  well 
tell  you  now  that  I  shall  be  able  to  take  up  work 
in  New  York  in  a  year  or  two.  I've  got  Ellis  out  of 
the  running.  He's  done  for.  They're  holding  the 
place  for  me — as  soon  as  old  Purvis  consents  to  take 
a  back  seat.  But  in  any  case  I'd  rather  have  an 
other  two  years  in  the  west  for  the  sake  of  my  own 

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affairs.  Then  I  shall  be  in  a  position  to  give  you 
all  the  things  you  ought  to  have — a  big  house,  a 
carriage,  jewelry,  an  opera-box — ' 

"Oh,  please!  I  don't  want  any  of  those  things. 
My  tastes  don't  lie  that  way." 

"Nonsense!  Every  woman's  tastes  lie  that  way. 
I  want  to  give  you  all  the  things  you've  had  to  give 
up — the  things  that  belong  to  you.  You'll  be  the 
most  talked-of  woman  in  New  York.  There'll  be 
nothing  you  can't  have.  And  if  you  want  to  take 
Mrs.  Penrhyn  to  Florida  for  the  winters — why,  it 
will  be  just  as  you  say." 

They  reached  a  balustrade  at  the  end  of  the  gar 
den,  separating  the  grounds  of  their  own  hotel  from 
those  of  the  next.  She  released  his  arm,  drawing 
her  scarf  more  closely  about  her,  and  throwing  one 
end  of  it  over  her  left  shoulder.  There  was  just 
light  enough  to  make  the  sequins  on  the  gauze 
gleam  faintly.  Charlie  Grace  half  leaned,  half  sat, 
on  the  low  balustrade  so  that,  as  Hilda  stood  facing 
him,  her  eyes  were  on  a  level  with  his. 

"You  don't  have  to  tell  me  all  those  things,"  she 
said,  after  long  thinking,  "to  show  me  how  kind 
you'd  be.  I  know  you'd  be  kind.  That's  not  what 
I'm  afraid  of." 

'Then  what  are  you  afraid  of?"  he  asked, 
gently. 

"I  should  be  afraid  of — the  whole  thing." 

"I  see.     The  same  old  doubt." 

She  nodded. 

His  voice  became  caressing,  reproachful.  "Which 
means  that  you  don't  love  me." 

"It  doesn't  mean  that  so  much  as — 

He  leaned  forward  suddenly  and  caught  her  hand. 

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THE     WAY     HOME 


"It  doesn't  mean  that?  Then  what  does  it  mean? 
You  do  love  me  then? — a  little?" 

She  withdrew  her  hand.  "But  not  enough  for 
what  you  want.  I'll  be  frank  with  you.  I  admire 
you — I  can't  tell  you  how  much  I  admire  you.  And 
it's  quite  true  what  you  said  just  now— that  I 
admire  you  for  doing  the  very  things  I  disapprove 
of.  I  don't  understand  myself  in  that  respect.  I'm 
inconsistent — but  I'm  telling  you  the  truth.  And 
because  it  is  the  truth  I  must  ask  you  to  believe  me 
when  I  say  that  what  I  feel  for  you  isn't  enough — " 

He  seized  both  her  hands  in  both  of  his  in  an 
effort  to  draw  her  down  to  him.  "It's  enough  if 
I  think  it  is.  I'm  not  asking  for  more  than  you  can 
give.  I  should  be  content  with  anything  you  felt 
able  to  offer  me." 

"But  I  shouldn't,  you  see.  When  a  woman — I 
mean  a  woman  like  me — is  willing  to  take  all,  she 
wants  to  give  all — and  I  could  only  give  with 
hesitations  and  reserves." 

He  dropped  her  hands  as  suddenly  as  he  had 
taken  them,  springing  up  from  his  place  on  the  wall. 
The  probing  instrument  that  had  hitherto  been  only 
hurting  him  had  touched  him  on  the  quick. 

"With  hesitations  and  reserves  and  suspicions," 
he  said,  coldly.  "You  might  have  saved  yourself 
that  repetition." 

She  clasped  her  hands,  looking  up  at  him  mutely 
for  a  second  or  two,  and  then,  with  a  little  cry,  "Oh, 
Charlie,  don't  be  angry  with  me." 

"I'm  not  angry,"  he  declared,  starting  to  walk 
back  toward  the  hotel.  "I'm  only  tired — fright 
fully  tired— of  it  all.  Distrust  of  me  has  become 
a  sort  of  idee  fixe  with  you,  hasn't  it?  It's  no  use 

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my  trying  to  dispel  it.  Not  that  I  mean  to  make 
the  attempt.  As  I  am  I  am.  If  I  fail  to  gain  your 
good  opinion  I've  no  doubt  it's  as  much  my  fault  as 
my  misfortune;  but  I've  neither  the  time  nor  the 
inclination  to  make  myself  over." 

The  change  in  him  was  so  sudden  that  it  frightened 
her.  "You  don't  know  how  sorry  I  am,"  she  faltered, 
trying  to  keep  pace  with  his  rapid,  impetuous  steps 

"you  don't  know  how  sorry  I  am  for  anything  I've 
said  that  has  wounded  you.  I  shouldn't  have  done  it 
if  I  hadn't  felt  it  my  duty  to  make  the  situation  clear." 

"Oh,  you've  made  it  clear  enough — needlessly 
clear.  But  isn't  it  a  part  of  rhetoric,  when  you've 
sufficiently  scored  your  point  to  leave  it  alone?" 

"I  should  have  been  only  too  glad  to  leave  it 
alone,  Charlie — " 

"And  please  don't  call  me  Charlie,"  he  said, 
irritably.  "Only  my  very  best  friends  do  that." 

She  ignored  his  peevishness.  "I  hoped  you  would 
have  included  me  among  their  number." 

"I  hoped  so,  too,  till  you've  put  the  ban  on  it 
yourself.  You  can't  have  friendship  where  there's 
a  persistent  lack  of  confidence." 

"Not  generally,"  she  admitted;  "but  I  thought 
this  case  might  be  exceptional." 

He  gave  a  short  laugh.  "You  don't  scruple  to 
return  to  the  charge,  do  you?" 

"I  don't  scruple  to  do  anything  that  will  be  for 
your  good,"  she  said,  as  they  emerged  from  the 
friendly  shadow  of  the  palms  into  the  light  stream 
ing  from  the  hotel.  "I  hope  you'll  do  me  the  justice 
to  remember  that  whatever  I've  said  to-night  has 
been  more  for  your  sake  than  for  my  own.  If  I'd 
been  thinking  only  of  myself — " 
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"Oh,  of  course,"  he  jerked  out,  laconically. 

At  the  foot  of  the  steps  leading  up  to  the  terrace 
he  paused.  "I  don't  think  I  need  go  in,"  he  said, 
still  in  a  tone  of  offense.  "It's  too  late  to  disturb 
Mrs.  Penrhyn.  Perhaps  you'll  say  good-by  to  her 
for  me." 

She  nodded,  trying  to  escape  from  him  with  some 
conventional  form  of  farewell;  but  he  began  again: 

"Do  you  remember  that  the  last  time  we — we  went 
over  this  ground — the  day  Sophy  was  married — I 
said  it  was  not  the  end,  but  the  beginning?" 

She  nodded  again.  "I  think  I  do,"  she  answered, 
faintly. 

"Well,  I  don't  say  that  to-night.  To-night — as 
far  as  I'm  concerned — it's  the  end." 

"I'm  sure  that's  best,"  she  managed  to  say. 

"I'm  going  in  the  morning — and  I  shall  go  for 
good.  I  shall  never  come  back — never — unless — 
unless  you  call  me." 

"You  mustn't  hope  for  that,"  he  heard  her 
whisper,  as  he  lifted  his  hat  and  turned  away. 

Charlie  Grace  left  next  day  for  Genoa.  He 
lingered  there>  and  also  at  Turin,  Milan,  Bologna, 
and  Pisa.  It  was  nearly  a  fortnight  later  that  he 
arrived  in  Florence,  where  a  telegram  awaited  him. 
It  had  been  sent  by  way  of  his  London  bankers,  and 
was  dated  three  days  earlier. 

Mama  died  in  her  sleep  last  night.    Can  you  come  to  me  ? 

HILDA  PENRHYN. 


CHAPTER  IV 

SO  she's  called  me  back!" 
The  thought  was  in  Charlie  Grace's  mind 
before  he  had  read  to  the  end  of  the  telegram. 
Everything  else  was  secondary  to  it — even  her  be 
reavement.  She  had  called  him  back!  He  should 
see  her,  talk  with  her,  reason  with  her,  plead  with 
her — renewing  the  struggle  which  in  a  moment  of 
exasperation  he  had  rashly  given  up. 

He  had  been  cursing  that  rashness  during  the 
whole  fortnight  of  his  sauntering  through  northern 
Italy.  In  long  days  of  heavy-hearted  sight-seeing 
he  had  had  time  to  think  over  some  of  her  broken 
utterances,  some  of  her  half-admissions,  and  to 
extract  their  significance.  It  brought  him  to  a  per 
ception  of  things  that  had  escaped  him  in  the  hour 
in  the  garden  at  Nice.  He  came  to  believe  that  in 
the  very  act  of  protesting  against  him  with  the 
conscience  she  loved  him  with  the  heart — while  he 
had  been  so  dull  as  to  hear  only  the  protest.  He 
could  afford  to  smile  at  that  if  she  loved  him.  He 
could  even  approve  of  it — in  a  woman.  It  was 
necessary,  he  argued,  that  in  business,  as  in  some 
other  things,  there  should  be  one  law  for  the  woman 
and  another  for  the  man.  He  would  not  have 
hked  it  if  she  had  been  able  to  take  his  cynical,  dis 
illusioned  point  of  view.  How  could  she  smile  in 
dulgence  on  a  life  like  his?  He  could  be  tolerant  of 

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it  himself  on  the  ground  that  he  lived  according  to 
the  standards  of  other  men;  but  he  knew  the  angels 
must  regard  it  from  a  different  angle — and  so  must 
she.  There  were  women  who  didn't — who  couldn't 
— so  regard  it,  who  accepted  him  as  good  enough  as 
he  was;  and  after  brief,  stormy  intimacies  he  had 
turned  from  each  one  of  them  with  aversion.  To  be 
loved  by  a  woman  to  whom  his  soul  was  dearer  than 
his  body  would  be  something  like  redemption — a 
redemption  in  which  he  should  get  a  kind  of  vicarious 
justification,  while  still  doing  as  he  pleased. 

Appreciation  of  her  loss  came  to  him  when  he  was 
shown  into  the  long  narrow  sitting-room  late  on  the 
following  afternoon.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  there 
was  no  change  in  its  arrangements,  and  more 
flowers  than  usual,  it  seemed  curiously  empty.  She 
herself  looked  small  and  lonely  as  she  rose  from  a 
chair  by  a  window.  Her  pallor  was  perhaps  in 
tensified  by  the  dimness  of  twilight  and  the  severity 
of  her  black  dress;  but  he  could  see  she  had  been 
crying. 

What  happened  after  that  always  defied  his 
capacity  to  analyze.  Between  the  moment  of  his 
entering  the  room  and  that  when  he  found  her  in 
his  arms  there  was  a  space  of  suspended  mental 
action  such  as  comes  during  a  vivid  flash  of  lightning. 
He  could  remember  neither  her  crossing  the  floor 
nor  his  opening  his  arms  to  receive  her.  He  only 
knew  that  she  was  sobbing  with  her  head  against 
his  breast  and  that  he  was  kissing  the  coils  of  her 
brown  hair. 

How  long  they  stood  so  together  was  not  to  be 
reckoned  in  terms  of  time.  He  could  recall  that 
somehow  she  released  herself,  and  that  they  sat 

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down  with  the  width  of  the  room  between  them. 
Of  the  two  he  was  the  more  embarrassed.  His 
heart  was  pounding,  his  blood  was  surging,  his 
cheeks  were  hot.  He  could  hardly  listen  while  she 
talked.  She  had  returned  to  her  seat  by  the  window, 
where  her  back  was  toward  the  fading  light.  Con 
sidering  what  had  just  occurred,  it  seemed  to  him 
she  spoke  with  an  amazing  lack  of  constraint.  If 
anything,  there  was  in  her  voice  a  note  of  relief. 

She  was  telling  him  what  had  happened — how 
well  her  mother  had  been  the  night  before  she  died, 
how  she  had  read,  and  played  the  piano  a  little, 
and  quite  late,  after  Hilda  herself  had  gone  to  bed, 
had  pared  an  apple  and  brought  it  into  Hilda's 
room.  They  had  eaten  it  together,  the  mother  sit 
ting  by  the  bedside,  chatting  of  the  events  of  the 
day.  She  went  on  to  relate  those  simple  happenings 
which  grief  finds  sacred — those  last  stirrings  of  a 
life's  activities  which  become  significant  because 
they  are  the  last.  She  had  wakened  twice,  once  to 
hear  her  mother  coughing,  and  once  to  notice  she 
was  restless.  The  second  time  she  had  got  up  and 
gone  to  her  mother's  room  to  find  her  dropping  off  in 
to  a  doze.  That  must  have  been  about  three  o'clock. 
About  six — a  little  before  daylight — she  got  up 
again.  Her  mother  was  asleep.  She  was  still 
asleep  at  eight  o'clock,  at  nine,  at  ten.  At  ten  the 
daughter,  a  little  alarmed,  had  noticed  more  par 
ticularly,  and  found  her  dead.  The  doctor  said 
she  must  have  died  between  four  and  five. 

He  saw  it  was  a  comfort  to  her  to  talk  to  him,  and 
let  her  do  so.  His  attention  became  active  only 
with  the  words: 

"  I  wired  to  you  at  once,  though  I  knew  I  couldn't 
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reach  you  directly.  I'm  sorry  now  I  did,  because 
I've  disturbed  you  unnecessarily.  Canon  Lang- 
horne  has  arranged  everything  for  me.  He's  been 
so  kind." 

He  passed  over  the  reference  to  himself.  "What 
has  been  arranged?" 

"She's  to  be  laid  beside  my  father  at  Tarrytown. 
We  sail  from  Cherbourg  on  Wednesday  next  on  the 
Prinz  August  Wilhelm.  Canon  Langhorne  has  found 
some  one  to  go  with  me.  She  came  over  as  com 
panion  to  a  lady  who  isn't  going  back,  and  now  she 
wants  to  return." 

"And  when  you  get  to  New  York  what  shall  you 
do?" 

"I've  cabled  to  the  Merediths,  asking  them  to  take 
me  in.  They've  replied  at  once  that  I'm  to  come 
to  them.  That  will  give  me  time  to — to  think." 

For  a  minute  there  was  silence.  In  reply  to  what 
apparently  she  took  as  a  questioning  look  of  his 
about  the  room  she  said:  "She's  lying  in  the  chapel 
of  the  English  Church.  I  like  to  think  of  her 
there." 

There  seemed  little  more  to  say.  He,  too,  wanted 
to  think.  As  soon  as  he  could  do  so  without  seeming 
abrupt  he  rose. 

"I  shall  look  in  again  this  evening,  if  I  may,"  he 
explained.  "Just  now  I  should  like  to  go  to  the 
steamer  office  before  it  closes.  I  must  cable  to 
Osborne,  too,  so  that  he'll  expect  us." 

"Oh,  but  you're  not  coming  with  me!"  she  said, 
weakly.  "I  couldn't  allow  you  to  interrupt  your 
trip."" 

It  was  not  difficult  for  him  to  silence  this  protest. 
"I  shouldn't  think  of  your  taking  the  journey  alone. 

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Osborne  and  Emma  would  never  forgive  me."  It 
was  on  his  tongue  to  add,  "If  there  were  no  other 
reason,"  but  he  suppressed  that.  He  suppressed 
even  the  longing  to  go  forward  and  take  her  hand. 
Contenting  himself  with  a  bow  from  the  other  side 
of  the  room,  he  went  away. 

He  contented  himself  with  the  same  attitude  of 
distant  respect  all  through  the  pilgrimage  from  Nice 
to  Tarrytown.  For  the  time  being  it  was  enough 
for  him  to  take  care  of  her.  It  was  his  first  oppor 
tunity  of  taking  care  of  any  one.  His  father  had 
died  just  as  he  was  becoming  able  to  do  it;  his 
brother  Edward,  a  victim  of  indolence  and  drink, 
asked  for  no  more  than  an  occasional  check;  Emma 
required  nothing  from  him  at  all.  It  was  a  new 
luxury,  an  enlargement  of  life,  to  feel  some  one 
dependent  on  him.  At  each  stage  in  the  awesome 
journey  he  got  pleasure  from  the  thought  that 
Hilda  Penrhyn  knew  he  was  there,  not  only  looking 
to  her  comfort,  but  seeing  that  everything  else  was 
done  decently.  While  keeping  himself  unobtrusive, 
he  let  her  perceive  that  he  stood  between  her  and  all 
the  trying  details  incidental  to  a  journey  of  the  kind. 

Two  days  after  the  return  from  Tarrytown  she 
wrote  him  a  note  asking  him  to  come  and  see  her. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  not  to  force  himself  on  her 
unless  she  summoned  him.  He  would  take  no  ad 
vantage  of  the  fact  that  for  a  minute  or  two  at 
Nice  she  had  broken  down.  He  found  her  alone  in 
a  threadbare,  old-fashioned  drawing-room.  Study 
ing  her  as  she  sat  buried  in  the  corner  of  a  huge 
mahogany  sofa,  he  discovered  a  new  illumination  in 
her  eyes.  They  made  him  think  of  the  windows  of  a 

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house  he  had  seen  only  by  daylight  when  they  have 
been  lit  up  at  night. 

He  noticed  that  she  began  at  once  on  the  subject 
for  which  she  had  sent  for  him,  probably  lest  he 
should  think  she  had  an  ulterior  purpose  in  view. 

"I  know  you've  spent  a  lot  of  money  for  me.  I 
wish  you'd  tell  me  how  much  it  is." 

He  considered  a  moment.     "Is  that  necessary?" 

"Don't  you  see  it  is?     I  must  pay  it  back." 

He  considered  again,  looking  not  at  her  but  at  a 
point  on  the  wall  beyond  her.  "I  see  that  it  might 
be  necessary,"  he  said,  slowly,  "if  we're  not  going  to 
be  any  more  to  each  other  than  we've  been." 

He  still  didn't  look  at  her.  He  knew  without 
lifting  his  eyes  that  she  was  watching  him  con 
templatively,  her  cheek  resting  lightly  against  her 
hand,  her  elbow  supported  by  the  arm  of  the  sofa. 
"Do  you  think  we  can?"  she  asked,  at  last. 

"Do  you?" 

One  could  hear  the  ticking  of  the  mantelpiece 
clock  for  some  seconds  before  she  said,  "I  wish  I 
knew." 

He  took  the  line  of  keeping  rigidly  on  his  dignity. 
"I  fear  I  can't  help  you  in  that.  I've  said  all  I 
can." 

She  surprised  him  by  being  of  his  opinion.  "No; 
you  can't  help  me  in  that.  No  one  can  help  me. 
Because,  you  see,  I'm  not  only  afraid  of  you,  but 
I'm  afraid  of  myself.  That's  something  I  haven't 
confessed  to  you  yet.  If  I  weren't  afraid  of  myself 
I  should  be  less  uncertain  about  you." 

"I  don't  think  I  catch  your  point." 

"No;  probably  not.  You  couldn't,  without 
knowing  me  better  than  you  do." 

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"But  I  feel  I  know  you  so  well." 

Her  dreamy  smile  seemed  to  reach  him  like  the 
light  of  a  star  that  comes  from  a  long  way  off.  "You 
never  know  a  person  who's  as  reserved  as  I  am. 
Even  dear  mama  didn't  know  me.  I  used  to  see 
her  yearning  to  understand  me — but  I  never  gave 
her  any  help.  I  didn't  know  how,  for  one  thing; 
and  then,  children  are  often  cruel  in  that  way  to 
their  parents.  I  always  presented  a  sort  of  frozen 
front  to  mama — as  to  most  people.  Some  one  says 
there  are  characters  that  seem  to  be  made  of  ice 
— but  ice  beyond  which  there's  fire — and  that  they're 
always  the  most  dangerous." 

It  was  his  turn  to  smile.  "I  shouldn't  think  you 
were  dangerous." 

"That's  just  why  I  feel  it  right  to  warn  you." 

"On  the  ground  that  forewarned  is  forearmed?" 

Her  voice,  already  low,  dropped  lower,  as  she  said, 
"No;  on  the  principle  that  it  may  be  best  to  leave 
well  enough  alone." 

"And  what  about  the  fact  that  we're  in  love  with 
each  other?" 

He  expected  her  to  resent  this,  but  she  only  said, 
"That's  the  most  dangerous  part  of  all." 

He  got  up  restlessly,  leaning  at  first  on  the  back  of 
the  arm-chair  from  which  he  had  risen.  "I  con 
fess  I  don't  follow  you." 

"That's  because  you  don't  know  me.  And  the 
worst  of  it  is  that  I  can't  explain.  If  I  could,  you 
wouldn't  believe  me,  because  I  should  be  speaking 
not  from  facts,  but  from  that  kind  of  intuition  which 
is  almost  second  sight.  I'm  one  of  the  women  of 
whom  it  can  be  said,  as  Carmen  sings,  '  Si  je  t'aime, 
prends  garde  a  toif  I  know  I  don't  look  the 

225 


part,  but  that's   the  very  reason  why  I'm   telling 

5> 

you. 

He  laughed.  "It's  no  use  your  telling  me,  be 
cause  I  don't  believe  it.  You're  too  good  to 
be- 

"Oh,  I  know  I'm  good;  but  a  good  woman  can 
make  a  man's  life  as  hard  as  a  bad  one,  if  her  char 
acter  isn't  suited  to  his.  I  can  imagine  a  type  of 
man  whom  I  might  make  happy — 

"Because  you'd  care  for  him  more,"  he  declared, 
jealously,  beginning  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room. 

Her  voice  dropped  again.  "Perhaps  because  I'd 
care  for  him  less." 

He  wheeled  suddenly,  coming  toward  her.  "Does 
that  mean — 

She  put  up  a  hand  as  if  to  keep  him  away.  "I'm 
speaking  of  what  might  be  rather  than  what  is." 

"And  it  might  be  that  you'd  come  to  care  for  me 
more  than — 

"It  might  be  that  you'd  make  me.  That's  why 
I'm  advising  you — I  think  I'm  advising  you — not 
to  try." 

He  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the  length  of  the 
room  before  saying:  "A  little  while  ago  the  trouble 
lay  with  me.  Now  you've  shifted  your  ground — 

"Because  it  lies  with  both  of  us.  That's  what 
makes  it  so  serious.  I  see  so  many  reasons  why 
you  should  marry  another  kind  of  woman — and  why 
I  shouldn't  marry  at  all." 

He  came  near  to  the  end  of  the  sofa,  along  which 
her  arm  lay  lightly  extended.  The  emotion  or  ex 
citement  she  was  determined  to  suppress  betrayed 
itself  in  the  nervous  tapping  of  her  fingers,  as  well  as 
in  the  proud  erectness  of  her  head.  She  neither 

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moved  nor  looked  at  him  as  he  approached,  but  a 
spot  of  color  came  into  her  cheeks,  where  color  was 
rare. 

Standing  above  her,  bending  slightly  over  her,  his 
twitching  hands  clasped  tightly  behind  his  back, 
Charlie  Grace  felt  a  violent  renewal  of  the  impulse 
always  present  in  him,  even  when  dormant,  to  subdue 
her  spirit,  to  break  her  will.  The  women  he  had 
loved  hitherto  had  been  full-blown  types,  ready  to 
yield.  This  was  a  strange  little  creature,  showing 
fight.  If  she  had  had  no  other  attraction  for  him 
he  must  have  loved  her  for  being  so  game.  He 
would  have  seized  her  now  in  his  arms  and  crushed 
her  with  an  overwhelming  tenderness  if  there  had 
not  been  about  her  that  spiritual  aura  which  awed 
him  into  conventionality. 

"And  if  you  didn't  marry,"  he  asked,  trying  hard 
to  keep  to  a  conversational  tone,  "what  should 
you  do?" 

She  lifted  her  eyes  briefly,  letting  them  drop  again. 
"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  just  audibly. 

"Should  you  have  money  enough  to  live  on?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"And  if  you  hadn't,  where  should  you  go?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  repeated.  "I  haven't  thought 
out  any  of  those  things  yet." 

He  dropped  on  one  knee,  so  as  to  be  on  a  level 
with  her— the  arm  of  the  sofa  between  them.  "You 
haven't  thought  them  out,"  he  whispered,  his  face 
close  to  hers,  "because  you've  known  it  wouldn't 
be  necessary.  Isn't  that  it?" 

The  hand  lying  lightly  on  the  arm  of  the  sofa 
continued  its  tremulous  tapping.  "Everything  is 
so  strange  to  me,"  she  began,  brokenly,  "and  I'm 

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so  lonely  without  dear  mama — that  I  haven't  been 
able—" 

He  bent  and  kissed  her  wrist.  She  surprised 
him  by  bursting  into  tears.  He  drew  her  to  him, 
even  as  he  knelt. 

"Oh,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so  kind,"  she  sobbed 
as  she  allowed  him  to  press  her  head  down  on  his 
shoulder.  "I  wish — I  wish — you  wouldn't  be  so 
kind.  If  I  married  you — I — I  shouldn't  think  it 
right." 


CHAPTER  V 

ONE  afternoon  a  few  days  later  Charlie  Grace 
went  down  to  Vandiver  Place  for  the  first 
time  since  the  July  morning,  nearly  ten  years  earlier, 
when  he  had  turned  his  back  on  it  for  good.  He 
never  thought  of  it  now  without  the  vision  of  his 
father,  wearing  slippers  and  a  long  black  alpaca 
house-coat,  plodding  from  room  to  room,  nominally 
collecting  his  books,  but  really  tearing  his  heart 
strings  from  the  places  and  objects  round  which 
they  had  clung  for  the  best  part  of  a  lifetime.  His 
impression  on  turning  the  corner  was  that  of  seeing 
old  familiar  things  distorted  in  a  dream.  The 
change  in  sky-line  struck  him  first.  Some  of  the 
houses  had  apparently  sprouted,  and  shot  up  like 
weeds  in  an  untended  garden.  Others  crouched  low, 
as  if  shrinking  out  of  sight.  The  brown-stone 
fronts,  with  their  high  steps  and  Renaissance  por 
ticos,  had  an  apologetic  air,  as  timid  obstacles  to 
the  march  of  progress.  The  row  of  gray-stone 
dwellings  with  the  colonnaded  front  looked  like  some 
battered,  grim  survival  of  an  ancient  time.  Amiens 
Cathedral,  its  spires  dwarfed  by  an  adjoining  busi 
ness  block  with  pointed  windows  considerately  de 
signed  to  harmonize  with  the  church,  seemed  to 
wear  on  its  facade  the  wrinkled  frown  of  a  sad  old 
man.  Miss  Smedley's  house,  which  he  understood 
she  still  occupied,  neat,  furbished,  with  curtains  at 

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the  windows,  alone  flew  the  flag  of  defiance  of 
Time. 

Picking  his  way  past  an  establishment  for  ready- 
made  clothing,  its  windows  attractively  filled  with 
genteel,  headless  men — past  a  wholesale  emporium 
for  millinery,  where  dark-eyed,  oily-skinned  girls  of 
Slavic  origin  were  slipping  in  and  out — between 
packing-cases — and  across  the  tail-ends  of  drays 
backed  up  to  the  edge  of  the  pavement — Charlie 
Grace  came  to  the  door  of  St.  David's.  It  was  open, 
and  he  went  in.  In  the  fading  light  of  the  winter 
afternoon  the  stained-glass  windows  gleamed  with 
the  ghostly  radiance  of  old  jewels.  Near  the  chancel 
one  or  two  jets  of  gas  were  burning.  From  his 
recollection  of  former  customs  he  guessed  there  was 
going  to  be  a  service  at  five  o'clock. 

Presently  a  gray  head  rose  from  the  bottom  of  a 
pew,  where  it  had  apparently  been  intent  on  some 
task  of  mending  or  adjustment.  Charlie  Grace  went 
forward. 

"Hello,  Remnant!"  he  said,  softly. 

A  little  old  man  in  a  beadle's  gown  turned  round 
slowly  to  salute  the  stranger  in  the  aisle.  "Good 
afternoon,  sir.  If  you  want  to  see  Mr.  Legrand,  sir, 
he  won't  be  here  till  five  o'clock." 

"I  do  want  to  see  Mr.  Legrand,  Remnant;  but 
I  want  to  see  you  first." 

A  slow  light  came  into  the  little  eyes  in  which  the 
twinkle  had  long  ago  been  extinguished.  A  slow 
smile,  too,  dawned  behind  the  dejected  gray  mus 
tache.  "Why,  if  it  ain't —  There  was  still  some 
hesitation.  "Why,  if  it  ain't  —  you  —  sonny!  —  I 
mean — Mr.  Charlie! — Mr.  Grace,  I  mean!" 

There  was  a  mutual  wringing  of  hands.  "Well, 
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well,  well,  well!"  expressed  the  joyous  astonish 
ment  in  Remnant's  greeting.  "Well,  well!  I'm  as 
glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Charlie,  as  if  somebody  had 
give  me  a  five-dollar  bill.  My,  but  you've  grown — 
and  looks  handsome! — which  I  never  thought  you 
would!  You  was  a  pretty  little  boy,  all  right,  and 
then  you  come  up  weedy.  Ah,  but  I  wish  your  pa 
could  see  you  now — and  your  poor  ma!  Do  you 
mind  your  poor  ma,  Mr.  Charlie?  She  was  a  lady 
—too  good  for  this  world.  Ah,  them  was  times! 
Nothin'  like  it  now.  You'd  drop  tears,  Mr.  Charlie, 
to  see  what  we've  come  to.  They  put  their  foot  in 
it  the  day  they  invited  your  pa  to  skip.  It's  been 
down,  down  ever  since.  First  one  family  to  move 
away  and  then  another!  Now  you  may  say  as 
there's  no  one  but  me  and  Miss  Smedley  left — and 
she  don't  hardly  count,  poor  old  thing,  with  one 
foot  in  the  grave.  Religion  is  a  poor  investment 
—that's  what  I  say.  When  I  think  of  the  money 
that's  been  sunk  in  this  church! — and  for  what? 
For  a  crowd  of  low-down  people — most  of  'em 
furriners — that  you  wouldn't  want  to  look  at  when 
you  passed  'em  in  the  street.  There's  no  packin' 
o'  missionary  boxes  now,  sonny.  It's  t'other  way 
round.  Missionary  boxes  has  to  be  packed  for  us. 
Think  o'  that!  What  'u'd  your  poor  pa  have  said  to 
it? — swell  up-town  churches  sending  us  their  cast- 
offs!  We  ain't  a  church  any  more.  We're  a  emi 
grant  station.  It's  all  sewing-classes,  and  cooking- 
classes,  and  classes  for  teaching  English  to  Poles  and 
Russians  and  Dagos  and  every  other  kind  of  riff 
raff.  Help  'em  to  be  American  citizens,  Parson 
Legrand  says.  I'd  American-citizen  'em  if  it  was 
me.  I'd  jail  'em  as  fast  as  they  come  to  the  church 

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door.  They  don't  come  for  nothin'  but  what  they 
can  get — and  he  don't  see  it,  Parson  Legrand  don't. 
He's  as  simple  as  a  babe  unborn.  They'll  take  him 
in  every  time,  and  then  he'll  let  himself  be  took  in 
again.  It's  all  holler,  Mr.  Charlie,  all  holler.  When 
I  think  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hornblower  sitting  in  the 
second  pew  from  the  front — behind  your  poor  ma, 
that  was — and  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Furnival  behind  them, 
and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pemberton  behind  them  again, 
and  Miss  Smedley  two  pews  from  the  front  on  the 
other  side — and  us  looked  up  to  all  over  New  York 
—like  a  cathedral,  you  might  say — and  your  pa 
preaching  so  loud  you  might  ha'  heard  him  over  to 
Broadway  —  that  was  something  like  religion. 
There's  no  religion  nowadays.  The  bottom's  out  of 
it.  But  it's  good  to  see  you  again,  Mr.  Charlie. 
It's  as  auxilarating  to  me  as  if  you  was  an  angel 
come  back  from  a  better  world." 

Charlie  Grace  was  too  full  of  the  subject  that  had 
brought  him  to  give  Remnant  the  sympathy  he 
deserved.  "You're  to  be  the  angel  from  a  better 
world,  Remnant,"  he  said,  jovially.  "I  want  you 
to  marry  me." 

Remnant  took  the  information  with  a  disappoint 
ing  lack  of  enthusiasm.  "Do  you  now?  Well,  I 
christened  you,  and  confirmed  you,  so  it's  nothing 
but  right  that  I  should  have  this  job,  too.  And 
please  God,  I'll  bury  you,  if  both  of  us  lives  so 
long.  And  who  might  you  be  thinking  of  marrying, 
Mr.  Charlie?  There's  a  very  nice  young  lady  here 
in  the  rectory.  You  wouldn't  ha'  thought  Parson 
Legrand  could  ha'  had  such  a  nice  young  lady;  but 
she  takes  after  her  ma." 

Remnant's  tone  suggested  that  if  the  young  man's 
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choice  was  not  irrevocably  made  it  might  be  worth 
while  considering  Miss  Legrand. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  too  late  for  that,"  Charlie  Grace 
laughed.  "My  young  lady  is  Miss  Hilda  Penrhyn, 
daughter  of  Mr.  Anthony  Penrhyn — " 

Remnant  nodded  approval.  "He's  dead.  They 
never  come  to  this  church,  but  they're  good  people. 
Glad  you  done  so  well.  When  might  it  be  you  was 
thinking  of,  Mr.  Charlie?  You'll  want  the  bells 
rung,  I  suppose,  and  everything  proper?" 

There  was  further  discussion  of  the  ceremony, 
after  which  Charlie  Grace  went  on  to  the  rectory. 
On  crossing  the  bit  of  greensward,  now  overlaid 
with  snow,  he  felt  curiously  juvenile  again.  Child 
hood  came  back  to  him  not  so  much  with  impressions 
of  pleasure  as  with  those  of  weakness,  of  anxiety. 
His  mother  became  vivid  to  his  memory  as  she  had 
not  been  for  nearly  twenty  years;  but  he  saw  her 
timid,  apprehensive,  pained.  The  weight  of  bur 
dens  he  had  long  ago  thrown  off  descended  upon 
him  in  retrospect,  bringing  a  wave  of  resentment  not 
only  against  the  spot,  but  against  the  interests  that 
centered  round  it.  Whether  they  stood  for  truth 
or  error  was  a  matter  of  indifference;  he  hated  them 
just  the  same. 

Though  in  its  exterior  the  rectory  was  grimier  than 
it  used  to  be,  he  noticed  at  once  that  it  displayed 
a  more  modern  taste  within.  In  the  hall,  where, 
in  his  time,  the  conspicuous  objects  had  been  an 
old  leather-covered  sofa  and  one  or  two  chairs  not 
good  enough  to  be  put  anywhere  else,  there  was  a 
spindle-legged  table  holding  a  decorative  plate  as 
card-receiver  and  a  grandfather's  clock.  In  the 
drawing-room,  which  he  remembered  as  adorned  by 

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a  Brussels  carpet  strewn  with  roses  and  ferns  of 
gigantic  size,  there  was  now  a  hardwood  floor 
sparsely  covered  with  inexpensive  Oriental  rugs. 
Spindle-legged  furniture  obtained  here  also,  while 
art  fabrics  screened  the  Gothic  windows.  He  was 
far  from  expert  as  to  interior  decoration,  but  he 
gathered  that,  with  the  aid  of  the  literature  on  that 
subject  which  was  beginning  to  be  abundant,  some 
one  in  the  house  was  rather  pathetically  trying 
to  keep  abreast  of  the  domestic  fashions  of  the  day. 
Having  been  invited  by  a  neat  but  elementary  Irish 
girl  to  "put  his  name  in  the  dish  till  she  saw  if  there 
was  any  one  at  hoame,"  he  was  now  waiting  for  the 
results  of  this  mission  to  be  made  known  to  him. 

A  rapid  step  on  the  stair  was  followed  by  the  ap 
pearance  in  the  room  of  a  tall  girl,  with  reddish  hair, 
a  bright  complexion,  and  a  sweet,  cheery  smile. 
He  knew  her  at  once  by  the  quick,  lithe  movements 
her  mother  had  had  before  her.  There  was  some 
thing  of  animal  grace  in  them,  and  yet  the  grace  of 
no  animal  he  could  think  of,  unless  it  were  of  collies 
bounding  on  the  grass.  She  held  out  her  hand 
cordially. 

"I'm  so  sorry  mother  isn't  at  home,"  she  said, 
easily,  without  shyness.  "Won't  you  sit  down? 
Father  will  be  in  after  service.  Service  is  at  five." 

Charlie  Grace  felt  slightly  embarrassed.  He  was 
not  used  to  young  girls.  The  women  who  had  at 
tracted  him  had  been  more  or  less  mature,  and 
generally  older  than  himself.  He  sat  down  awk 
wardly  on  one  of  the  spindle-legged  chairs  as  he  said : 

"I  wanted  to  see  Mr.  Legrand  on  rather  im 
portant  business." 

"If  you  could  wait  till  about  half  past  five — " 
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"Oh  yes,  I  can  do  that." 

He  noticed  that  she  was  wearing  a  hat  and  gloves. 
He  observed,  too,  that  she  was  rather  richly  dressed, 
in  dark-blue  velvet  trimmed  with  fur.  Possibly  the 
costume  was  a  little  worn  and  of  a  style  not  that  of 
the  current  year.  A  floating  recollection  came  back 
to  him  that  when  she  was  a  child  she  was  clad  from 
the  wardrobes  of  wealthier  relatives.  The  reflection 
passed  through  his  mind  that  it  was  a  pity  so  noble 
a  girl  couldn't  have  what  was  befitting  her. 

He  saw  she  was  a  noble  girl  as  he  looked  at  her  a 
second  time  and  a  third.  Her  coloring  was  lovelier 
than  her  mother's  had  been  in  that  it  was  richer  and 
less  evanescent.  Her  features  were  stronger,  too, 
— suggestive  of  her  father's  ascetic  countenance,  and 
hinting  at  reserves  of  will.  The  mouth  had  the 
strength  and  richness  of  the  other  features — with 
full  red  lips,  like  the  petals  of  a  rose.  From  the  cells 
of  memory  he  drew  the  recollection  that  Hattie 
Bright  had  once  said  of  this  girl's  eyes  that  you 
couldn't  tell  whether  they  were  blue  or  black,  re 
cording  the  fact  that  this  was  so.  If  he  had  had  to 
affirm  that  they  were  one  or  the  other  he  would  have 
said  they  were  of  the  deepest  shade  of  purple  pansies, 
with  the  softness  of  the  velvet  she  had  on. 

He  reverted  to  the  circumstance  that  she  was 
wearing  a  hat  and  gloves.  "  I  mustn't  keep  you  in  if 
you  are  going  out." 

"I  was  only  going  into  the  church — to  play  the 
organ  for  service.  I've  plenty  of  time;  and  it 
wouldn't  matter  if  I  was  late,  as  the  hymn  doesn't 
come  till  near  the  end.  I  can  always  slip  in  by  the 
side  door.  I  suppose  you  remember  that?" 

He  was  able  to  make  conversation  by  telling  of 
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the  uses  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  put 
the  side  door,  with  its  free  access  to  Remnant. 
They  talked  of  Remnant,  and  of  his  inability  to 
adapt  himself  to  changed  times  and  manners. 
"Of  course  it  isn't  the  same  sort  of  parish  at  all 
now,"  she  explained.  "If  it  had  been  father 
wouldn't  have  come  back  to  it.  We  left  Trenton 
because  at  St.  Philip's  there  was  none  of  this  kind 
of  work.  Not  that  he  doesn't  think  there  must  be 
churches  to  minister  more  particularly  to  the  rich; 
only  he  feels  that  his  call  is  to  the  poor." 

She  said  this  so  earnestly  that  he  was  moved  to 
ask:  "And  is  yours,  too?" 

Her  blue-black  eyes  flung  him  a  glance  that  was 
both  frank  and  good-humored.  "Yes;  by  proxy. 
So  long  as  it's  father's  call  it's  mine." 

"That  is,  you  don't  take  to  it  naturally,"  he 
ventured. 

"Not  by  first  nature;  only  by  second.  But  sec 
ond  can  be  pretty  good." 

"You  mean  that,  being  obliged  to  do  it,  you  do  it 
as  well  as  you  can." 

"Oh,  you  get  interested.  You  really  do.  There 
are  so  many  sorts — and  so  many  needs — and  they're 
so  like  children — especially  when  they  first  come 
here.  You  can't  imagine  anything  more  helpless 
than  they  are — both  men  and  women — for  the  first 
year  or  so  after  they  arrive.  They're  wonderfully 
weak  and  touching.  You  simply  have  to  mother 
them — you  simply  have  to." 

"And  do  you  mother  them?" 

"Oh,  I  grandmother  them.  You've  no  idea  how 
they  look  up  to  me.  I  can  often  make  them  do 
things  when  father  can't — and  poor  mother  has 

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never  been  able  to  bear  the  smells  in  their  kitchens. 
I  don't  wonder  at  that.  I  couldn't,  either,  if  I 
wasn't  used  to  it." 

"What  kind  of  things  do  you  do  for  them?" 

She  laughed.  "It  would  be  easier  to  ask  me  what 
kind  of  things  I  don't  do  for  them.  I  could  make 
the  list  briefer.  Why,  I  do — anything.  It's  never 
twice  the  same.  Except  for  the  classes  in  different 
things  no  two  days  are  alike." 

He  was  growing  interested.  "Well,  to-day,  fol 
example?" 

"To-day?  Let  me  think.  This  morning  I  was 
in  at  Blum  &  Rosenbaum's — that's  the  artificial- 
flower  place  you  passed  just  before  you  came  to 
St.  David's  Building — the  big  block  next  the  church. 
I  was  there  to  see  a  young  Polish  girl  who's  been 
giving  her  mother  trouble — " 

"About  a  young  man,  I  presume." 

She  flung  him  another  of  her  good-humored 
glances,  this  time  with  a  dash  of  surprise  in  it. 
"Yes,  about  a  young  man.  How  well  you  know! 
You  ought  to  be  doing  this  work  yourself.  I 
wanted  her  to  promise  me  not  to  go  to  a  certain 
dance-hall — where  she  meets  the  young  man,  of 
course — without  her  mother's  consent." 

"And  did  you  succeed  ?" 

"Not  yet;  but  I  shall.  Halka  is  fonder  of  me  than 
of  any  young  man  she  knows — yet." 

"And  then— after  you  left  Halka?" 

"Then  I  went  to  see  a  woman  with  a  consumptive 
son — a  boy  of  seventeen.  We  want  her  to  let  us 
take  him  to  a  little  home  up  in  the  Catskills  where 
he'd  probably  get  better.  He's  only  in  the  first 
stages  of  it  yet,  and  the  doctor  says  there'd  be  a 

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very  good  chance  for  him  if  she'd  let  him  go.  But 
the  poor  thing  adores  him — and  wants  to  keep  him, 
naturally  enough — and  they  have  only  one  room 
besides  the  kitchen — and  four  other  children — so 
you  can  see  for  yourself — " 

He  could  see  for  himself,  and  told  her  so.  "And 
you're  the  organist,  besides?" 

"Only  on  week-days.  We  have  a  man  on  Sun 
days,"  she  added,  proudly;  "but  I  help  to  train 
the  choir.  Just  now  I  must  help  to  get  the  tea," 
she  went  on,  springing  up  and  pulling  off  her  gloves, 
"if  you  won't  mind  sitting  still  while  I  do  it.  We 
keep  the  tea  -  things  right  here,  as  it  makes  less 
trouble  for  Julia." 

"There  was  a  Julia  in  my  day." 

"Yes;  Julia  Corkery.  That  Julia  died  about 
four  years  ago.  We  used  to  hope  she'd  marry 
Remnant,  but  the  question  of  religion  interfered. 
And  Remnant  never  seems  to  have  wanted  to  marry. 
In  his  way  he's  complete  in  himself." 

With  a  question  or  two  he  led  her  back  to  the 
classes.  She  answered  him  while  she  spread  a 
fancy  tea-cloth  on  a  spindle-legged  table,  and  took 
cups  and  saucers  from  their  hiding-place  in  a  corner 
cabinet. 

"Oh,  we  don't  attempt  much — just  what  we  can 
do.  We  throw  our  strength  into  cooking  and  sewing 
and  teaching  English.  We  succeed  best  in  the  last 
two,  because  you  don't  need  a  'plant,'  as  manu 
facturers  say.  For  cooking  you  require  at  least  a 
kitchen — and  we've  only  a  couple  of  gas-stoves  at 
one  end  of  the  schoolroom.  Some  day  we  hope  to 
have  a  parish-house,  and  then  we  shall  do  all  sorts 
of  things.  I  want  to  start  a  laundry  class — but,  you 

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see,  we  need  a  'plant'  for  that.     Don't  you  think 
a  laundry  class  would  be  perfectly  splendid?" 

Further  discussion  was  cut  short  by  the  return  of 
Mrs.  Legrand.  The  girl  left  her  task  of  arranging 
the  tea-things  to  run  to  her  mother  in  the  hall. 
"Mother,  who  do  you  think  is  here?  Mr.  Grace — 
old  Dr.  Grace's  son." 

There  was  a  hurried  throwing  off  of  outer  wraps, 
and  a  still  more  hurried  entry,  as  a  plump  lady 
bustled  in,  with  both  hands  outstretched. 

"Charlie,  this  is  perfectly  delightful,  don't  you 
know  it  is?  I  thought  you'd  forgotten  all — ail- 
about  us.  We've  so  often  talked  of  you,  and  won 
dered  whether  we  should  ever  see  you  again.  But 
you're  such  a  great  man  now — and  such  a  rich  one 
— and  we're  so  out  of  everything  we  expected  to  be 
in — and  so  lost  in  this  frightful  slum — that  no  one 
ever —  But  do  sit  down.  Esther,  why  doesn't 
Julia  bring  the  tea?  Do  sit  down,  do!  I  can't  half 
tell  you  how  delighted  I  am,  don't  you  know  I  can't? 
— and  Mr.  Legrand  will  be  quite  as  glad  as  I  am. 
Let  me  see!  How  many  years  is  it  since  we've  met?" 

He  made  a  rapid  computation  while  Mrs.  Legrand, 
throwing  back  her  veil  and  taking  off  her  gloves, 
settled  herself  at  the  tea-table.  "Just  fourteen,"  he 
replied. 

She  examined  him,  while  Julia  brought  in  the  tea 
pot,  and  Esther  busied  herself  with  bread-and- 
butter  and  cakes.  "And  how  you've  changed!" 

"  You  haven't,  Mrs.  Legrand,"  he  was  gallant 
enough  to  declare. 

Her  smile  reminded  him  of  the  pretty  giggle  of 
former  years.  "Oh  yes,  I  have.  I'm  stouter. 
Yes;  I'm  really  stouter — 

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"That's  hardly  the  word;  a  wee  bit  more  ma 
tronly,  perhaps— 

"And  this  great  girl  of  nearly  eighteen — " 

"Nearly  nineteen,  mother." 

"Is  it  nineteen,  dearest?  Why,  yes,  it  is.  You 
see,"  she  went  on,  addressing  the  young  man,  "I 
can't  realize  that  she's  almost  grown  up,  because 
she's  never  come  out.  That's  what  marks  the 
difference  between  childhood  and  womanhood  to 
my  mind.  A  girl  who's  never  come  out  is  to  my 
mind  still  in  the  schoolroom,  don't  you  know  she 
is  ?  But  what  can  one  do  in  a  slum  of  this  kind  ?  I 
keep  asking  my  husband  to  tell  me  that.  I  keep 
asking  him  to  tell  me  what's  to  become  of  Esther — 
how  she's  to  have  a  life — how  she's  to  have  a  life — 
Lemon  or  cream,  Charlie?  Cream?  And  sugar? 
No  sugar.  Tell  me  if  that's  strong  enough.  I  keep 
asking  my  husband — " 

"Oh,  mother  dear,  Mr.  Grace  doesn't  care  any 
thing  about  that." 

"Mr.  Grace  cares  a  great  deal  about  that,"  said 
Mr.  Grace  himself.  "He  knew  you  when  you  were 
in  your  cradle.  Don't  you  want  to  come  out  — 
and  have  a  good  time?" 

"The  two  things  don't  necessarily  go  together," 
she  replied,  promptly.  "Of  course  I  should  like  it 
— if  everything  was  different  from  what  it  is."  She 
had  taken  her  tea  without  sitting  down,  and  now 
made  an  excuse  for  running  away.  "I've  a  lot  of 
little  things  to  do  in  the  church,"  she  explained 
to  her  mother,  who  protested.  "I  must  see  to  the 
altar-linen  for  Sunday— 

"Another  thing  you  do?"  Charlie  Grace  asked, 
with  a  smile. 

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"Nominally  Miss  Smedley  does  it — you  remember 
old  Miss  Smedley,  don't  you?  But  as  a  matter  of 
fact  the  poor  old  thing  doesn't  get  out  very  often, 
so  I  look  after  it  for  her.  It  gives  her  something  to 
scold  me  about — and  she  likes  that,  the  poor  old 
dear." 

"Such  spirits,"  the  mother  sighed,  as  soon  as  the 
girl  had  gone,  "and  such  energy.  It  simply  breaks 
my  heart  to  see  it  so  misapplied,  so  thrown  away. 
But  what  can  I  do  ?  I  do  everything  I  can — I  assure 
you  I  do.  If  it  wasn't  for  me  we  should  be  buried 
alive.  You  know  what  relations  can  be — how  un 
feeling.  We're  both  connected  with  all  the  best 
families  in  New  York;  but  Esther  is  kept  out  of  her 
rightful  place  by  Mr.  Legrand's  madness  to  live  in 
this  frightful  slum.  You've  no  idea  how  the 
neighborhood  has  changed.  I  didn't  know  neigh 
borhoods  could  change  so.  If  I  had  the  slightest  no 
tion  of  it  I  should  never  have  agreed  to  leaving 
Trenton.  Trenton  was  bad  enough — so  far  from  all 
the  people  one  knows.  I  died  of  homesickness  dur 
ing  all  the  years  we  lived  there.  I  thought  that  if 
we  could  only  get  back  to  New  York! — but  this 
isn't  New  York.  It's  Poland,  or  Russia,  or  Italy, 
or  whatever  country  you  like — but  it  isn't  New 
York.  And  my  friends  can't  come  here,  don't  you 
know  they  can't?  I  might  as  well  be  in  the  heart 
of  a  forest,  as  far  as  they're  concerned.  And 
Esther's  young  life  ruined.  Ruined  is  not  too 
strong  a  term.  She  never  sees  any  one — or  goes 
anywhere — or  has  any  amusement— 

"Do  you  mean  that  she  never  goes  to  the  theater 
or  the  opera,  or  anything  like  that?" 

"Anything  like  that!  Why,  she's  never  been  to 
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the  opera  in  her  life,  and  not  more  than  two  or  three 
times  to  the  theater.  And  that  was  in  Trenton." 

He  looked  shocked.  It  was  the  sort  of  deprivation 
that  appealed  to  his  pity.  "But  that's  perfectly 
awful.  Couldn't  she  come  with  me  ?  Couldn't  you 
both  come?"  The  brightening  of  the  lady's  face 
encouraged  him  to  continue.  "I'll  tell  you  what 
we'll  do.  We'll  have  a  little  dinner  first — just  the 
three  of  us — at  the  Blitz  or  the  Monico — and  we'll 
go  on  to  the  opera  afterward.  We'll  do  it  the  very 
first  evening  you're  free." 

"Oh,  we're  free  any  evening.  Esther  has  her 
classes,  of  course;  but  we  could  arrange  for  that. 
It's  really  too  kind  of  you,  Charlie.  If  you  weren't 
such  a  very  old  friend  I  shouldn't  think  of  letting 
you —  But  the  poor  child  has  been  longing  so  to  go 
to  the  opera — just  once  in  her  life — if  no  more — 
And  so  many  of  our  relatives  have  boxes — only  they 
never  ask  us — living  in  this  slum — " 

The  poor  lady's  lips  quivered  so  pitifully  that  he 
interrupted  her  by  asking  for  a  newspaper,  so  that 
he  might  consult  the  program  for  the  week.  While 
she  rose  to  find  one  he  could  note  more  carefully 
the  changes  which  can  come  over  a  pretty  woman  in 
the  course  of  fourteen  years.  His  memory  went 
back  even  to  1874,  when  she  was  the  object  of  his 
adoration  and  a  bride.  He  could  easily  conjure  up 
the  vision  of  her  spun-sugar  chignon,  her  rose-leaf 
complexion,  her  rustle  of  blue  flounces,  and  her 
Grecian  bend,  for  the  matron  of  forty-eight  con 
served  as  much  of  the  archness  of  the  bride  of 
twenty-three  as  was  consistent  with  a  fretful  spirit, 
a  triple  chin,  and  the  development  of  embonpoint. 
By  the  time  they  had  studied  the  paper  and  fixed 

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on  "Faust"  for  a  night  in  the  following  week  as  the 
most  suitable  opportunity  for  Esther's  introduction 
to  opera  the  minute  had  come  for  him  to  proceed  to 
the  vestry  for  his  interview  with  Mr.  Legrand.  He 
felt  that  before  going  he  ought  to  mention  the  nature 
of  his  errand  to  his  hostess;  but  something  held  him 
back.  Perhaps  it  was  Remnant's  suggestion  of  the 
nice  young  lady  in  the  rectory;  perhaps  it  was  ? 
subtle  sense  that  the  announcement  might  bring  a 
discordant  note  into  what  had  been  a  pleasant 
meeting;  perhaps  he  was  a  little  fatuous  in  thinking 
that  Mrs.  Legrand's  imagination  might  be  leaping 
ahead  to  future  impossibilities;  in  any  case,  Mr. 
Legrand  would  be  in  a  position  to  inform  the  family 
as  soon  as  he,  Charlie  Grace,  had  gone. 

His  reception  in  the  vestry  was  not  less  cordial, 
on  another  plane,  than  it  had  been  in  the  house. 
Time  had  rendered  the  present  rector  of  St.  David's 
more  spare  and  more  ascetic,  but  had  left  him  just 
as  straight  and  tall.  Into  the  face — not  so  much 
wrinkled  as  deeply  scored — life  had  brought  some 
thing  which  Charlie  Grace  did  not  remember  as 
having  been  there  before.  It  might  have  been  a  new 
gentleness  or  a  new  severity — he  was  not  sure  which. 
Undoubtedly  the  eyes  were  more  searching — with 
the  concentrated  spiritual  light  generated  by  the 
scrutiny  of  souls.  Wearing  his  cassock,  and  stand 
ing  erect  beside  a  high-backed  Gothic  chair,  he  was, 
so  the  younger  man  thought,  the  embodiment  of  the 
claims  and  exactions  of  the  Church. 

Once  more  Charlie  Grace  had  a  curious  sense  of 
juvenility.  In  that  vestry,  which  was  the  one  un 
changed  spot  he  had  seen  in  Vandiver  Place,  he  went 
back  twenty  years.  His  figure  seemed  to  shrivel 

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into  knickerbockers,  while  he  could  again  feel  his 
soul  struggling  with  the  majestic  problems  which 
the  round  of  Advent,  Christmas,  and  Easter  pre 
sented,  unable  to  view  them  otherwise  than  through 
the  luridness  of  his  youthful  sins.  Even  before  he 
had  shaken  hands  with  Rufus  Legrand  he  was  con 
scious  of  a  pang  of  pity  for  his  childhood,  for  its 
gravity,  its  awesomeness,  its  spiritual  wistfulness. 
He  had  never  been  wholly  light-hearted,  with  the 
light-heartedness  he  had  known  as  a  man.  Life  had 
been  solemn;  death  had  seemed  near;  the  very  fre 
quency  of  funerals  had  given  his  early  years  the 
accompaniment  of  a  lugubrious  pomp.  The  aisles 
and  galleries,  as  he  had  passed  through  the  nave 
just  now,  still  re-echoed  with  chants  and  refrains 
only  partially  of  this  world.  And  he  was  wholly  of 
this  world!  That  was  the  point  at  which  his  re 
sentment  began.  He  was  earthly,  materialistic,  per 
suaded  only  of  what  his  eye  could  see.  He  had 
attained  to  this  freedom  with  difficulty,  as  a  self- 
taught  man  acquires  education.  It  was  through 
conflicts,  growths,  and  eliminations,  through  efforts, 
not  always  easy,  to  cast  away  the  husks  after  con 
viction  that  there  was  no  fruit  therein.  What  he  re 
sented  was  the  fact  that  this  struggle  had  been  forced 
on  him — not  by  his  father,  nor  by  any  individual, 
but  by  the  system  into  touch  with  which  he  had 
once  more  come.  Had  he  been  born  free  he  would 
not  have  suffered  from  the  scars  he  was  conscious  of 
carrying — he  would  not  have  had  to  recognize  the 
harsh  discrepancies  between  life  as  it  had  begun 
for  him  and  life  as  he  was  living  it.  He  would  have 
liked  his  career  to  have  been  smooth,  consistent,  all 
of  one  piece,  whereas  it  was  disfigured  by  violences 

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and  disruptions,  which,  however  justifiable  from  his 
point  of  view,  caused  him  an  inner  discomfort. 

These  thoughts,  which  were  always  incoherently 
present  in  his  heart,  focused  themselves  during  the 
few  minutes  of  his  talk  with  Rufus  Legrand  into  an 
acute  feeling  of  hostility  to  most  of  the  ideals  the 
tall  ecclesiastic  represented  and  St.  David's  sheltered 
beneath  its  roof.  The  feeling  broke  into  words  as 
soon  as  it  was  settled  that  Hilda's  selection  of  the 
Tuesday  after  Easter  at  three  o'clock  would  be 
convenient  for  the  church  authorities.  The  impulse 
on  which  Charlie  Grace  spoke  now  was  not  unlike 
that  which,  years  ago — in  this  very  room,  to  this 
very  man,  sitting  on  this  very  chair — had  led  him 
to  voice  his  objections  to  being  confirmed.  He  tried 
to  think  it  a  case  of  conscientious  frankness,  though 
in  the  back  of  his  mind  he  knew  he  was  only  seeking 
expressions  for  his  aggressive  repugnance  to  spiritual 
rites. 

"You've  always  been  so  kind  to  me,  sir,  that  I  feel 
I  ought  to  say  that  I  don't  consider  this  religious 
ceremony  necessary  at  all.  As  far  as  I'm  concerned  a 
civil  marriage  would  be  just  as  effective  and  would 
better  suit  my  opinions.  I  feel  it's  only  fair  to  tell 
you  that." 

The  tall  figure  in  the  Gothic  chair  bowed  slightly, 
with  the  glimmer  of  a  smile.  Thinking  it  over 
afterward,  Charlie  Grace  could  not  say  whether  it 
was  an  illuminated  smile,  or  a  tolerant  smile,  or  a 
sardonic  smile — but  he  was  sure  there  was  more  in 
it  than  just  a  smile. 

"But  I  presume  Miss  Penrhyn  would  consider  the 
religious  service  essential?" 

Charlie  Grace  admitted  that  this  was  so. 

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"Then,  that's  all  I  need  to  know.  In  cases  of 
this  kind,  if  one  of  the  contracting  parties  desires 
the  blessing  of  the  Church,  he  or  she  has  a  right 
to  have  it." 

Legrand's  tone  as  he  paused  seemed  to  imply  that 
there  was  no  more  to  be  said.  As  on  the  occasion 
when  they  had  talked  of  confirmation,  the  younger 
man  felt  dissatisfied  with  this  way  of  letting  the 
subject  drop.  He  would  have  liked  more  made  of 
it.  He  was  not  polemically  inclined,  but  there  were 
questions  on  which  he  enjoyed  airing  his  opinions, 
especially  with  people  who  held  contrary  convictions. 
Here  in  this  vestry,  above  all  places,  he  was  impelled 
to  strike  a  blow  at  conceptions  he  believed  inimical 
to  progress.  He  tried  to  provoke  discussion  tact 
fully  by  saying: 

"I  thought  it  only  right  to  tell  you  that,  sir — 
though  I  suppose  it  doesn't  make  much  difference." 

"None  at  all — except  to  yourself." 

Charlie  Grace  thought  he  saw  an  opening.  "It 
hasn't  made  any  difference  to  me  whatever.  Or, 
rather,"  he  corrected,  "it's  made  this  difference,  that 
since  I've  given  up — all  this" — his  gesture  seemed 
to  cover  the  whole  site  of  St.  David's — "I've  felt 
freer — more  of  a  man." 

His  tone  was  subtly  inquiring,  as  though  asking 
the  question  "How  do  you  account  for  that?" 
Legrand  declined,  however,  to  take  the  challenge  up, 
uttering  only  the  word,  "Indeed!"  very  politely. 
Charlie  Grace  was  impelled  to  struggle  on. 

"  I  know  you  won't  agree  with  me,  sir — but  you've 
always  been  a  sort  of  father  confessor  to  me — so  I 
hope  you  won't  mind  my  speaking  out.  As  a  matter 
of  fact — since  giving  up  the  Church — or  Christianity 

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— however  you  choose  to  put  it — I've  felt  more 
reverent — in  that  I've  abandoned  a  lot  of  assumptions 
and  presumptions  which,  it  seems  to  me,  no  one  had 
any  right  to  make,  in  the  first  place." 

There  was  a  pause.  With  his  elbows  on  the  arms 
of  his  chair  Legrand  fitted  the  tips  of  his  fingers 
together,  the  glimmering  smile  still  on  his  lips. 
"That  must  fortify  you  in  your  position,"  he  said, 
at  last. 

Giving  up  as  useless  the  attempt  to  draw  his  old 
friend  out,  Charlie  Grace  turned  the  conversation 
on  the  kindly  personal  themes  in  which  he  was  more 
at  home,  and  presently  took  his  leave.  On  his  way 
back  to  the  hotel  he  rehearsed  the  incidents  of  the 
afternoon  in  such  a  way  as  to  give  a  coherent  ac 
count  of  them  to  Hilda. 

In  this  connection  he  dwelt  specially  on  the  pleas 
ure  she  would  have  in  hearing  about  Esther  Legrand. 

"I've  never  in  my  life  seen  a  human  being  who 
tugged  more  piteously  at  one's  heart-strings,"  were 
the  words  he  used  of  her,  as  he  sat  beside  Miss 
Penrhyn  on  the  big  mahogany  sofa  in  the  Merediths' 
drawing-room  that  evening.  He  had  dined  with  the 
Meredith  family  for  the  second  or  third  time  since 
Hilda  had  become  their  guest.  For  the  moment 
the  hostess  and  her  daughters  had  obligingly  dis 
persed  in  order  to  give  the  lovers  a  half-hour  to 
themselves. 

Having  uttered  the  words  in  sincere  enthusiasm, 
he  was  surprised  to  see  what  he  could  only  describe 
as  a  lick  of  flame  shoot  out  of  Hilda's  eyes.  It 
reminded  him  of  nothing  so  much  as  a  blaze  at  the 
window  of  some  seemingly  tranquil  house,  showing  it 
is  on  fire  within.  He  had  an  instant's  fear  of  having 

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made   some   mistake,   but   became   reassured   when 
she  said,  quietly: 

"How  interesting!     Tell  me  about  her." 

He  went  on  to  do  as  invited.  "She's  just  the 
type  you'd  admire.  She's  a  beautiful  girl — really 
beautiful — in  a  style  one  doesn't  often  see.  I  mean, 
one  doesn't  often  see  so  much  beauty  with  so  much 
character — or  so  much  character  in  any  one  so 
young.  You  see  what  I  mean?  It's  the  combina 
tion — the  whole  thing.  She's  a  creature  of  extraor 
dinary  energy — you  can  see  that  from  the  things  she 
does — and  yet  she's  touching — appealing.  What  do 
you  think?  She's  never  been  to  the  opera  in  her 
life — and  only  two  or  three  times  to  a  theater." 

In  making  this  announcement  he  was  so  overcome 
by  the  yound  lady's  lack  of  privileges  as  not  to 
notice  that  the  flame  in  Miss  Penrhyn's  regard  was 
now  playing  on  him  in  rapid,  lambent  flashes  like 
summer  lightning.  She  smiled,  however,  her  slow, 
dreamy,  distant  smile,  as  she  said:  "How  dreadful! 
I  wonder  you  don't  take  her." 

"That's  just  what  I'm  going  to  do — next  week — 
to 'Faust." 

Miss  Penrhyn  changed  her  position,  sitting  more 
erect,  opening  with  a  quick,  rustling  flutter,  like  the 
whirr  of  a  rising  partridge,  her  large  black  fan. 
She  fanned  herself  slowly  while  he  went  on : 

"Don't  you  think  that  good  old  'Faust'  would 
make  the  best  beginning  for  her?  Melba's  to  sing, 
and  Jean  de  Reszke,  and  Plancon,  and  little  Bauer- 
meister.  Don't  you  think  that  that's  starting  in 
well  for  any  one  who's  never  seen  an  opera  before?" 

She  fanned  herself  slowly.  He  noticed  now  that 
he  had  never  seen  her  eyes  so  brilliant.  They  shot 

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out  rays  like  those  that  come  from  fire- opals  or 
from  amber.     "Did  you  say  anything  to  her  about 

9» 

— met 

He  came  down  from  the  sky  of  his  enthusiasm  to 
a  solid,  frozen  earth.  He  remembered  with  un 
easiness  his  hesitation  of  the  afternoon.  He  couldn't 
see  at  once  the  bearings  of  his  omission  to  inform 
Mrs.  Legrand  of  his  engagement,  but  he  knew 
vaguely  that  the  circumstance  might  create  mental 
or  emotional  complications.  He  was  uncomfortable. 
He  colored.  "I  told  the  father,"  he  explained, 
lamely. 

"That  was  after,  wasn't  it?  If  I  understand  you 
rightly,  you  saw  these  ladies  first.  Not  that  it 
matters,"  she  added,  indifferently.  "I  only  won 
dered." 

"You  see,"  he  went  on,  nervously,  "I  knew  that 
— with  your  mourning — and  one  thing  and  another — 
you  couldn't  come  to  dinner  at  the  Blitz — " 

"Oh,  there's  to  be  a  dinner,  too!  How  delight 
ful!" 

"Yes — a  little  dinner  at  the  Blitz.  At  the  Blitz," 
he  repeated,  apologetically.  He  began  to  wonder 
whether  he  had  been  guilty  of  some  blundering 
social  solecism.  "  Just  a  little  dinner — she  and  her 
mother  and  I.  It  won't  be — it  won't  be —  Well,  it 
won't  be  what  you'd  call  gay.  It  will  be  very  simple 
— just  before  we  go  on  to  the  opera.  You  under 
stand,  don't  you?  It  will  be  just  a  beginning  for 
the  evening — so  as  not  to  be  too  abrupt.  You  see, 
she's  never  been  to  a  big  restaurant  like  that — never. 
It  will  be  something  new  for  her — " 

"And  for  you,"  she  said,  sweetly.     "Won't  it?" 

"It  won't  be  half  as  good  fun  as  staying  here  with 
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you,  Hilda,  darling;  but,  you  see,  I've  known  the 
Legrands  all  my  life — " 

"I  thought  you  said  you  hadn't  seen  this  girl 
since  she  was  a  baby.  That's  hardly  knowing  her 
all  your  life,  is  it?" 

He  began  to  feel  as  he  had  felt  once  or  twice  when 
lost  in  a  fog  or  a  snow-storm  on  the  prairie,  with  a 
thickened  atmosphere  about  him  and  neither  sun 
nor  moon  to  show  him  the  points  of  the  compass. 
He  asked  himself  if  it  was  possible  that  Hilda 
would  have  liked  to  be  included  in  the  company. 
"You  wouldn't  come,  would  you?"  he  said,  earnestly. 
"No;  I  thought  not,"  he  went  on,  as  she  shook  her 
head.  "That's  why  I  didn't  speak  of  it  from  the 
first." 

"You're  very  considerate.  You  always  are. 
Angelica,"  she  called  to  the  eldest  Miss  Meredith, 
who  happened  to  pass  the  drawing-room  door. 
"Do  come  here.  Mr.  Grace  has  been  telling  me  of 
such  a  wonderful  girl  he's  been  meeting.  She's  a 
Miss  Legrand,  daughter  of  the  present  rector  of 
St.  David's." 

Miss  Meredith  came  discreetly  to  the  threshold, 
holding  in  her  hand  the  book  she  had  finished  bind 
ing.  She  was  the  artistic  one  of  the  talented  Mere 
dith  sisters.  She  did  book-binding  and  painted  por 
traits.  Miss  Elinor  did  fancy  needlework  and  gave 
imitations  of  popular  actors  and  actresses.  Miss 
Edith  played  the  violin  and  worked  in  a  philan 
thropic  settlement.  Miss  Meredith  was  short  and 
round,  with  a  shortness  and  a  roundness  dissimulated 
just  now  under  draperies  suggestive  of  a  Grecian 
peplum.  They  were  white  embroidered  with  gold, 
and  fell  over  her  plump  little  bosom  like  tapestries 

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from  a  festive  balcony.  Her  fair  hair  was  done  in  a 
tight  little  Grecian  knot,  in  a  style  unbecoming  to 
her  little  round  face,  with  its  little  round  mouth  and 
little,  wide-open  eyes  that  were  like  two  brand-new 
silver  coins.  She  spoke  rapidly,  with  the  revolving 
articulation  of  a  person  who  has  something  too  hot 
in  the  mouth. 

"Do  you  know  her,  Mr.  Grace?  Oh,  c-lan't  you 
get  her  to  sit  to  me?  I've  wanted  her  to  sit  to  me 
ever  since  the  evening  I  saw  her  at  the  Bleecker 
Street  Settlement  House.  It  was  a  concert  for  the 
girls.  Edith  played.  This  Miss  Legrand  was  there. 
You  ought  to  hear  Edith.  She  raves  about  her. 
She's  lovely,  isn't  she,  Mr.  Grace? — Miss  Legrand. 
Did  you  notice  her  hair?  No?  I  don't  see  how  you 
could  help  it.  It's  the  most  c-lurious  hair.  If  it 
was  a  little  redder  it  would  be  red.  But  it  isn't  red. 
It  isn't  any  c-lolor  I  can  give  a  name  to.  And  then 
her  eyes.  They're  the  real  violet  eyes  you  read  about 
in  books  and  never  see.  And  did  you  notice  the 
whiteness  of  her  skin? — where  it  is  white.  No? 
why,  you  didn't  notice  anything.  It's  the  whiteness 
of  the  white  rose — not  the  porcelain  whiteness  that 
generally  goes  with  reddish  hair.  Not  that  her  hair 
is  red.  It  isn't.  And  it  isn't  golden — and  it  isn't 
auburn — and  it  isn't  chestnut,  like  yours,  Hilda. 
It's  as  if  nature  couldn't  decide  what  to  make  it, 
and  so  made  a  little  of  all  three.  Isn't  it  a  pity  she 
has  such  a  silly  mother?  It  works  against  her. 
The  Van  Iderstines  and  the  Peter  Legrands  would 
do  something  for  her  if  the  mother  didn't  get  on 
their  nerves.  But  I  c-lount  on  you  to  get  her  to  sit 
to  me,  Mr.  Grace.  It  '11  give  me  the  ch-lance  of  a 
lifetime." 


THE     WAY     HOME 


"So  you  see  Miss  Meredith  agrees  with  me," 
Charlie  Grace  said,  triumphantly,  as  that  lady  passed 
down  the  hall. 

But  Hilda,  from  whose  eyes  the  lambent  fire  had 
suddenly  gone  out,  had  become  dreamy,  silent,  and 
let  the  subject  drop. 


CHAPTER  VI 

HP HOUGH  Miss  Penrhyn  did  not  speak  again  of 
A  Esther  Legrand,  Charlie  Grace  lived  through 
the  days  that  had  to  pass  before  the  dinner  at  the 
Blitz  and  the  visit  to  the  opera  in  a  state  of  mind 
resembling  that  of  guilt.  If  it  was  not  wholly  that 
of  guilt  it  was  because  he  succeeded  in  convincing 
himself  of  his  freedom  from  social  indiscretion. 
That  was  what  he  had  charged  himself  with  first. 
He  had  committed  some  blunder  of  taste.  He  had 
extended  an  invitation  which  the  canons  of  etiquette 
could  not  sanction.  His  very  anxiety  to  do  nothing 
that  would  shock  New  York  rendered  him  sensitive 
to  the  possibility.  If  from  his  seemingly  innocent 
enterprise,  he  reasoned,  Hilda  kept  herself  detached, 
it  was  probably  because  she  saw  it  in  the  light  in 
which  it  would  be  viewed  by  their  fellow-townsmen. 
It  took  him  a  day  or  two  to  think  the  case  out  in 
all  its  bearings,  and  to  assure  himself  that  when  a 
respectable  young  man  invited  two  respectable  ladies 
to  a  respectable  place  of  entertainment  the  proceeding 
could  be  justified  even  by  standards  so  rigorous  as 
those  of  the  metropolis.  Reassured  on  that  point,  he 
was  driven  back  on  the  fact  that  in  matters  of  per 
sonal  conduct — of  wholly  legitimate  conduct — he  had 
now  another  will  to  consider  besides  his  own.  The 
discovery  was  not  without  its  startling  elements. 
It  was  a  new  idea  that  Hilda  might  act  as  a  restraint 

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on  a  private  liberty  which  had  hitherto  acknowledged 
no  restraint  at  all.  That  he  should  from  time  to 
time  make  concessions  to  her  wishes  he  had  taken 
for  granted.  He  might  accept  her  advice  in  delicate 
matters  and  submit  to  her  guidance  in  questions 
of  right  and  wrong.  He  could  also  conceive  of  him 
self  as  being  good-naturedly  led  by  her  caprice  when 
the  woman  in  her  called  for  indulgence.  She  should 
never  have  to  fear  unkindness  on  his  part,  or  any 
thing  but  the  more  loving  forms  of  coercion  of  the 
will.  To  take  every  care  from  her  heart,  every 
burden  from  her  shoulders,  every  task  from  her 
hands,  and  show  her  sumptuous  and  splendid  and 
idle  before  the  world  as  the  outward  and  visible 
embodiment  of  his  success,  was  a  large  part  of  his 
ideal  in  marriage.  It  was  incredible  that  any  one 
toward  whom  his  good  intentions  were  so  sincere 
should  go  out  of  her  way  to  find  unnecessary  dis 
cords. 

He  was  far  from  making  this  last  assertion  with 
regard  to  Hilda,  but  he  couldn't  conceal  from  him 
self  the  fact  that  her  mind  was  at  work  on  the 
minutiae  of  his  life.  To  her  concern  for  the  great 
principles  by  which  he  lived  he  had  no  objection. 
He  had  more  than  once  invited  her  to  discussion  of 
those  themes,  chiefly  with  the  desire  to  convert  her. 
Even  without  converting  her  he  acknowledged  that 
the  whole  sphere  of  interest  was  debatable  ground. 
But  it  was  quite  another  matter  to  have  her  enter 
with  an  inquiring  mind — an  inquiring  mind  endowed 
with  judgments  of  its  own — into  his  intimate,  sacred 
realm  of  little  nothings.  That  might  become  alarm 
ing.  He  could  hardly  imagine  an  existence  in  which 
his  wife  would  care  to  know  how  he  filled  in  the 

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hours  not  spent  in  her  society.  It  was  not  so  much 
that  he  would  deny  her  the  right  to  know  as  that  he 
would  consider  the  wish  to  know  unwarrantable. 
It  would  be  intrusive,  indelicate.  Life  was  full  of 
things  too  trivial  to  make  a  secret  of,  and  yet  too 
personal  to  share.  It  was  also  full  of  things  too 
important  to  be  trivial,  and  yet  too  immaterial  to 
excite  opinions  either  pro  or  contra.  It  was  under 
the  last  heading  that  he  would  have  classed  his  invi 
tation  to  the  ladies  Legrand.  It  was  inconceivable 
to  him  why  she  should  object  to  it;  it  was  scarcely 
conceivable  to  him  why  she  should  have  a  thought 
about  it  at  all.  He  would  have  said  offhand  that 
it  was  as  far  outside  the  domain  of  her  preoccupations 
as  her  discussions  with  the  Misses  Meredith  as  to 
how  she  should  dress  for  her  wedding  were  outside 
the  domain  of  his. 

To  do  Hilda  justice  he  had  to  admit  that,  except 
for  the  flames  of  opal  and  amber  in  her  eyes — fires 
that  were  doubtless  beyond  her  control— and  a  cer 
tain  brevity  in  response  to  his  enthusiasm,  he  had 
no  complaint  to  make  of  her  as  to  either  word  or 
deed.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  sense  of  her  disappro 
bation  by  which  he  felt  himself  interpenetrated  was 
too  subtle  to  be  conveyed  by  word  or  deed,  or  any 
of  the  grosser  forms  of  communication.  It  came 
neither  by  the  eye  nor  by  the  touch  nor  in  the  air. 
It  reached  him  by  avenues  both  extra-mental  and 
extra-sensuous.  It  was  as  though  he  had  been  sud 
denly  endued  with  spiritual  antennae  of  a  delicacy 
to  transcend  all  the  faculties  of  the  flesh  and  super 
sede  them.  He  was  like  one  who  trod  on  air,  but 
on  an  air  more  vitally  charged  with  meanings  than 
a  cloud  can  be  charged  with  electricity — meanings 

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he  took  in  by  the  mere  contact  of  his  being — in  a 
manner  both  wonderful  and  disturbing.  He  could 
not  walk  by  Hilda's  side,  nor  sit  with  her  at  the 
table,  nor  hear  her  discourse  on  pictures  or  music 
or  Lenten  services  with  the  Misses  Meredith,  with 
out  feeling  his  whole  soul  exposed  to  the  processes 
of  her  thought  on  the  subject  of  his  dinner  to  Esther 
Legrand.  They  swept  about  him  and  over  him  and 
through  him,  in  his  sleep  and  in  his  waking,  in  his 
downsitting  and  his  uprising,  wave  on  wave  of — 
what  was  it? — it  was  scarcely  censure — it  was  too 
subtly  distilled  to  be  disquietude — wave  on  wave 
of  divine  reproach  that  at  such  a  minute — on  the 
eve  of  marriage — he  could  have  had  the  conscious 
ness  of  any  woman  but  herself. 

He  reached  this  perception  at  last  with  delicious 
throbs  of  flattery,  of  security.  If  Hilda  did  him  the 
honor  to  be  a  little  jealous — the  word,  as  applied  to 
her,  was  coarse,  but  he  could  find  no  other — the 
obvious  inference  was  that  she  loved  him  more  than 
she  had  been  willing  to  admit.  The  situation  was 
one  of  which  he  had  previous  experience.  He  knew 
how  to  deal  with  it.  Attentions,  subservience, 
flowers,  jewels — jewels  in  particular — were  powerful 
aids  in  making  the  crooked  straight.  If  from  cer 
tain  angles  he  saw  Hilda  as  a  goddess,  he  regarded 
her  from  others  as  a  woman  of  flesh  and  blood.  It 
was  from  the  latter  point  of  view  that  he  approached 
her  now — and  with  some  success.  She  liked  the 
jewels,  she  loved  the  flowers,  she  rejoiced  in  the  at 
tentions  and  subservience.  He  offered  them  all  with 
a  sincere  humility,  with  a  timid  awkwardness,  that 
touched  her.  When  the  evening  for  the  dinner  at 
the  Blitz  came  round  he  felt  that  if  he  did  not  pre- 
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cisely  go  to  it  with  her  blessing  on  the  party  he  had 
at  least  administered  an  anodyne  to  her  misgivings. 

But  scarcely  was  the  sense  of  guilt  dispelled  from 
one  side  before  it  was  borne  in  on  him  from  another. 
The  dinner  had  the  success  of  all  things  brilliant 
ly  done,  against  a  brilliant  background.  It  was 
graced,  moreover,  by  the  sheer  human  pleasure  of  a 
young  girl's  delight  in  her  first  glimpse  of  the  gayer 
aspects  of  the  world.  Everything  dazzled  her  from 
the  minute  of  entering  the  great  room,  with  its 
softened  lights,  its  hues  of  gray  and  rose,  its  music, 
its  movement,  its  hum  of  talk.  It  was  like  coming 
into  some  magic  palace  as  secure  from  care  as  the 
groves  of  the  Decameron  from  the  pestilence.  She 
had  never  imagined  that  in  crossing  the  sea  of  night- 
schools  and  sewing-classes  and  cooking-classes  and 
entertainments  for  neglected  girls  on  which  she  was 
embarked  one  could  touch  at  such  Happy  Isles  as 
this  and  be  so  gloriously  care-free.  Beauty  and 
luxury  moved  her  less  than  the  odd  sensation  that 
the  weight  under  which  she  was  accustomed  to  see 
poor  human  things  borne  down  was  temporarily 
lifted.  It  was  inspiriting  to  know  that  in  the  whole 
world  there  were  so  many  bright  beings,  apparently 
exempt  from  penury  and  anxiety,  as  clustered  round 
the  neighboring  tables.  It  was  an  entirely  new  view 
of  life.  It  was  like  an  earnest  of  the  sublimation  of 
the  race,  a  foretaste  of  universal  rescue. 

Charlie  Grace  had  the  satisfaction  of  being  proud 
of  both  of  his  companions.  The  mysterious  sources 
of  finery  on  which  Mrs.  Legrand  was  privileged  to 
draw  had  offered  of  their  best  for  the  occasion.  The 
elder  lady  was  dignified  in  black  velvet  that  height 
ened  the  value  of  her  still  pretty  complexion  while 

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tempering  her  buxomness.  Esther  swam  into  the 
orbit  of  the  diners  in  pale  green  veiled  by  diaphanous, 
lacy  things  that,  as  she  moved,  threw  an  aura  round 
her,  like  a  circle  about  the  moon.  At  each  of  the 
small,  rose-lighted  tables  there  was  a  cessation  of 
activities  when  she  passed,  eyes  lifted,  lips  parted 
with  a  quick  "Who's  that?"  when  speech  began  to 
flow  again.  On  taking  their  places  at  the  table  he 
noticed  the  details  to  which  Miss  Meredith  had 
drawn  his  attention — the  white-rose  texture  of  the 
neck,  the  bosom,  the  arms,  the  dusky  bronze-gold  of 
the  hair.  He  might  have  called  the  latter  reddish, 
if  left  to  his  unaided  perceptions;  but  since  Miss 
Meredith  had  given  him  points  concerning  it,  he 
could  do  justice  to  her  superior  knowledge.  His 
chief  regret  was  that  Hilda  could  not  have  been 
with  them,  to  be  convinced  of  the  reasonableness  of 
his  admiration. 

They  talked  little,  and  only  Charlie  Grace  himself 
could  be  said  to  eat.  For  the  two  women  it  was 
meat  enough  to  gaze  about  them,  with  eyes  that 
missed  no  detail  of  significance,  from  the  table  ap 
pointments  to  the  toilets  of  the  ladies  within  their 
range  of  view.  In  regard  to  the  latter  Mrs.  Legrand 
was  troubled,  perhaps,  by  the  thought  that  their 
own  costumes,  however  carefully  "freshened  up," 
could  scarcely  be  in  the  latest  mode,  while  she  specu 
lated  as  to  the  possibility  of  any  one  in  that  gay 
assembly  being  able  to  recognize  them  as  worn  by 
belles  of  the  Van  Iderstine  family  two  years  before. 

It  was  toward  the  end  of  the  dinner  that  Esther 
whispered:  "Why,  mother,  there's  Mr.  Hornblower 
—with  a  lady  and  gentleman.  Over  there — a  little 
behind  Mr.  Grace." 

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Mrs.  Legrand  raised  her  lorgnette  and  looked. 
"I've  seen  her  before,"  she  observed,  "though  I 
can't  remember  where.  Sleeves  really  do  seem  to 
be  growing  quite  small,"  she  continued,  with  a  ner 
vous  glance  at  the  bouffant  grace  of  Esther's  shoulders 
and  a  shrinking  effort  of  her  own. 

The  conversation,  such  as  it  was,  turned  on  Reg 
gie  and  Fanny  Hornblower,  of  whom  the  host  was 
glad  to  obtain  the  latest  news.  Fanny  was  abroad, 
had  been  abroad  ever  since  her  mother's  death  the 
previous  year.  She  had  come  in  for  both  the  house 
in  Fifth  Avenue  and  the  Long  Island  estate.  She 
had  never  married — probably  because  she  was  so 
plain.  She  was  always  liberal  with  money  for  under 
takings  at  St.  David's,  but  she  was  now  a  parishion 
er  at  St.  Bartholomew's.  Reggie  had  inherited  the 
banking  business,  though  Mrs.  Legrand  fancied  he 
didn't  attend  to  it  much.  There  were,  however,  the 
other  partners  to  do  that.  She  had  heard  he  was — 
But  you  couldn't  believe  everything  you  heard,  didn't 
Charlie  know  you  couldn't?  As  far  as  she  saw  he 
was  a  very  nice  young  fellow — though  he  looked  a 
little  as  if  he  drank.  They  had  seen  something  of 
him  after  his  mother's  death,  when  he  and  Fanny 
had  put  up  the  reredos  at  St.  David's  as  a  memorial 
to  their  parents. 

"And  we  did  so  hope  it  would  be  a  parish  house — 
father  and  I  did,"  Esther  broke  in,  earnestly.  "We 
could  do  without  the  reredos,  but  the  parish  house — " 

Charlie  Grace  had  an  inspiration.  "Suppose  I 
gave  you  that?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Grace- 

"Now,  now,  dearest!     Mr.  Grace  is  only  in  fun.*' 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  Let's  think  about  it." 
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After  reflection  he  added:  "I  couldn't  do  it  now; 
but  if,  when  I  come  back  to  New  York,  no  one  else 
has  done  it — " 

He  left  his  sentence  uncompleted,  and  they  talked 
of  other  things.  He  kept  saying  to  himself,  how 
ever:  "Why  not?"  It  might  be  the  very  thing  he 
was  in  search  of — a  means  of  avenging  his  father's 
memory.  A  benevolent  institution,  a  "William 
Grace  Memorial,"  right  on  the  spot  whence  he  had 
been  driven  out  would  be  coals  of  fire  not  merely 
on  the  head  but  in  the  eyes.  Unfortunately,  those 
who  had  been  active  in  bringing  about  his  father's 
humiliation  were  dying  off;  but  some  of  them  were 
still  left,  and  there  was  still  left,  above  all,  the  great 
system  that  had  accepted  his  father's  services  and 
used  him  up,  only  to  cast  him  aside  to  die  of  what 
amounted  to  a  broken  heart.  A  William  Grace 
Memorial  might  really  answer  many  purposes.  It 
would  preserve  his  father's  name  in  the  very  center 
of  New  York;  it  would  do  a  little  good;  and  its 
foundation  might  be  for  Charlie  Grace  himself  an 
outlet  to  irritations  and  resentments  which  got  no 
expression  in  his  present  attitude  of  aloofness.  He 
didn't  want  to  be  ungenerous;  he  wanted  only  to 
assert  himself;  he  wanted,  as  an  act  of  sheer  filial 
piety,  to  re-establish  his  father's  fame  as  one  who 
had  done  good  work  according  to  the  lights  of  his 
day  and  generation.  If  there  were  people  left  alive 
who  would  be  vexed  by  his  so  doing — then  all  the 
better.  He  could  think  of  at  least  ten  or  a  dozen 
of  the  former  worshipers  at  St.  David's  whom  he 
knew  to  be  still  in  the  flesh,  and  of  whom  he  hoped 
devoutly  that  they  would  continue  to  live  on.  It 
was  a  secondary  thought  that  if  he  were  to  go  in  for 

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philanthropic  action  of  this  sort  it  would  give  Hilda 
pleasure,  and  bring  again  the  swimming  look  of  joy 
into  Esther  Legrand's  violet  eyes  that  he  had  seen 
just  now. 

The  subject  was  not  one  on  which  he  could  dwell 
there  and  then.  He  was  obliged  to  put  it  aside  for 
further  meditation  as  he  paid  his  bill — as  unob 
trusively  as  possible,  out  of  regard  for  his  guests — 
and  follow  Mrs.  and  Miss  Legrand  from  the  restau 
rant  to  be  in  time  for  "Faust."  He  took  the  op 
portunity  as  he  passed  to  glance  in  the  direction  of 
the  table  at  which  he  understood  Reggie  Horn- 
blower  to  be  sitting.  One  of  its  occupants  was  a 
stranger,  but  he  recognized  Reggie  by  his  slim,  well- 
tailored  back.  He  recognized  the  lady,  too,  though 
full  comprehension  didn't  come  all  at  once.  She 
was  a  beautiful  woman,  with  negligently  arranged 
fair  hair  of  the  flaxen  shade  that  boldly  disdains 
the  limited  hues  of  nature,  and  the  full  but  not 
excessive  development  commonly  called  statuesque. 
A  corsage  of  wine-colored  velvet,  cut  in  a  simple, 
sweeping  curve,  displayed  the  splendor  of  a  bust 
on  which  Charlie  Grace  caught  subconsciously  the 
flash  of  diamonds.  Her  eyes  rested  on  him  for  a 
minute  questioningly,  as  his  on  her.  He  had  almost 
passed  before  she  inclined  her  head,  slowly,  doubt 
fully,  as  though  not  sure  of  his  identity — possibly  as 
though  not  sure  of  a  response.  He  had  bowed  in 
return,  doubtfully,  like  her,  and  had  gone  by  before 
he  found  himself  saying:  "Good  Lord,  it's  Hattie! 
Hattie  Bright!" 

It  was  another  subject  to  reserve  for  future  con 
sideration.  For  the  moment  he  had  enough  to  do  in 
fulfilling  the  task  of  squire  of  dames,  to  which  he  was 

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not  entirely  accustomed,  and  in  conveying  his  charges 
to  their  stalls. 

It  was  one  of  those  evenings  that  made  the 
nineties  memorable  in  the  history  of  New  York. 
The  time  had  not  yet  come  when  singers  pieced  out 
their  talents  by  being  singing-actors  and  singing- 
actresses.  Audiences,  too,  enthralled  by  melody, 
were  inexacting  as  to  deficiences  of  other  kinds. 
Using  their  imaginations,  they  beheld  in  a  stout, 
middle-age  Faust  making  love  to  a  matronly  Mar 
guerite  the  embodiment  of  youthful  seductiveness 
as  easily  as  an  Elizabethan  public  saw  the  Forest 
of  Arden  by  means  of  the  name  painted  on  a  sign 
post.  From  the  point  of  view  of  later  and  more 
sophisticated  days  many  things  may  have  been  lack 
ing  to  the  performance  of  Gounod's  venerable  opera 
under  the  direction  of  Maurice  Grau,  but  it  is  cer 
tain  that  Esther  saw  them  not.  From  the  moment 
when,  out  of  the  darkness  of  the  laboratory,  Jean  de 
Reszke's  velvety  voice  brought  the  wistful  despair 
of  an  old,  old  man — 

Rien!    En  vain  j'interroge,  en  mon  ardente  veille 
La  Nature  et  le  Createur — 

she  sat  as  one  under  a  spell.  Having  carefully 
studied  her  libretto  during  the  day,  she  was  trans 
ported  to  the  medieval  German  town  as  effectively 
as  in  dreams  she  was  sometimes  wafted  to  ball 
rooms  where  she  danced  with  engaging  young  men. 
Following  with  intensest  sympathy  the  ancient 
philosopher's  longings,  she  thrilled  with  the  proper 
alarm  as  Plan£on's  giant  red  figure  and  sinister 
black  plume  suddenly  sprang  into  the  limelight. 
"Me  void!  D'ou  vient  ta  surprise?"  Later,  when  a 

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lady,  whose  maturity  of  bust  contradicted  the 
youthfulness  of  her  long  fair  Saxon  plaits,  emerged 
from  the  wings,  clasping  a  prayer-book  to  her 
breast  with  an  air  impossibly  demure,  Miss  Legrand 
was  lost  to  the  world  in  the  age-old  tragedy  of  love, 
betrayal,  and  punishment. 

This  absorption  enabled  Mrs.  Legrand,  who  was 
seated  on  Charlie  Grace's  right,  to  whisper  an  occa 
sional  confidence  in  the  young  man's  ear  without  ex 
posing  herself  to  Esther's  indiscreet  attention.  Mrs. 
Legrand,  too,  was  in  a  state  of  ecstasy,  but  a  purely 
social  ecstasy.  The  musical  and  dramatic  features 
of  the  evening  were  negligible  elements  in  her  con 
tent.  It  was  all  one  to  her  whether  the  opera  were 
"Faust"  or  "Gotterdammerung."  She  dismissed 
the  celebrities  on  the  stage  once  her  curiosity  was 
satisfied  with  a  glimpse  of  them.  Jean  de  Reszke 
was  stouter  than  she  had  expected,  and  Melba  not 
as  good-looking  as  her  pictures.  Plancon  she  ad 
mired  for  his  height  and  the  easy  grace  with  which 
he  moved.  All  the  rest  of  her  pleasure  was  in  the 
simple  fact  of  being  there.  She  was  in  her  rightful 
place — among  the  rich,  the  fashionable,  the  well 
born.  She  was  where  she,  a  Van  Iderstine,  had  ex 
pected  to  be  when  she  married  a  Legrand.  It  could 
not  have  been  predicted  even  of  a  Legrand  who  was 
a  clergyman  that  he  would  contemn  the  privileges 
of  which  Providence  had  made  him  heir.  He  had 
been  a  handsome  clergyman,  and  she  had  fallen  in 
love  with  him.  She  had  married  not  a  clergyman, 
but  a  man.  If  she  could  have  chosen  she  would  have 
preferred  a  man  in  almost  any  other  of  the  upper 
walks  in  life.  But  allowing  for  all  this,  it  was 
beyond  every  possible  calculation  that  Mr.  Legrand 

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would  have  put  her  by  his  own  extraordinary  wil- 
fulness  in  the  obscure  position  she  was  now  compelled 
to  take. 

Happily,  this  was  an  occasion  on  which  such  sor 
rows  could  momentarily  be  set  aside.  She  was  there. 
She  could  see  and  be  seen.  At  least,  she  hoped  she 
could  be  seen.  The  Peter  Legrands  were  in  their 
box,  and  the  Kermit  Van  Iderstines  in  theirs.  It 
was  a  burning  grief  that,  though  she  was  a  relative 
of  the  latter  family,  and  Rufus  of  the  former  one, 
neither  she  nor  Esther  had  ever  been  asked  to  oc 
cupy  a  superfluous  seat  in  either  shrine — in  spite  of 
the  assiduity  of  her  calls.  It  would  be  a  genuine  con 
solation  if,  looking  down  from  their  insolent  perches, 
her  kinsfolk  could  see  her  now,  with  the  most  lovely 
girl  in  the  whole  house — a  girl  whom  people  were 
craning  their  necks  to  look  at  from  the  other  end  of 
the  row  of  stalls — and  a  handsome  young  man  as 
their  cavalier.  Who  knew  but  that  Esther  would 
one  day  have  a  box  of  her  own  ? — and  that  she,  Mrs. 
Legrand  herself,  might  not  be  emulating  Mrs. 
Kermit  Van  Iderstine's  languid  indifference  to  the 
seat  of  honor  in  the  front  row,  through  sheer  surfeit 
of  the  privilege?  It  was  this  last  thought  that 
spurred  her  to  take  advantage  of  the  lull  in  the 
action  caused  by  Plancon's  bows  in  response  to  the 
applause  following  on  his  rendering  of  the  "Veau 
d'Or,"  to  whisper  to  her  companion: 

"You  must  come  and  dine  with  us  some  evening." 
Then,  as  Charlie  Grace  interrupted  the  enthusiastic 
clapping  of  his  hands  to  nod,  rather  than  utter,  his 
assent,  she  added:  "It  won't  be  like  this  evening,  of 
course.  This  has  been  such  a  treat — you  can't 
think.  But  you  know  the  old  rectory — don't  you 

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know  you  do?  —  and  you'll  have  to  take  us  as 
we  are." 

The  point  being  settled,  she  took  the  opportunity 
when  there  was  nothing  more  lively  going  on  than 
Melba's  singing  of  "//  Hait  un  roi  de  Thule"  to 
whisper  further:  "I'm  afraid  we  can't  ask  you  for  a 
week  or  two,  because  of  its  being  Lent.  Mr.  Le- 
grand  is  so  particular.  He  wouldn't  have  agreed  to 
our  coming  to-night  only  that  it's  such  a  chance  for 
Esther." 

Not  to  lose  the  pathetic  cadences  of  the  phrase, 
"  Ses  yeux  se  remplissaient  de  larm.es"  sung  in  that 
haunting  virginal  voice,  he  nodded  again,  though  he 
began  to  feel  some  discomfort.  It  was  not  till 
Plan9on  offered  his  arm  to  Mademoiselle  Bauer- 
meister,  the  Dame  Marthe  of  the  piece,  that  Mrs. 
Legrand  continued,  always  in  a  whisper: 

"The  Tuesday  after  Easter  would  suit  us — if  you 
have  no  other  engagement." 

His  eyes  followed  the  action  on  the  stage  while  he 
leaned  sidewise  down  toward  her  and  said,  "That 
wouldn't  do,  because  it's  the  day  of  the  wedding." 

"What  wedding?"  she  gasped,  in  astonished  ques 
tioning. 

He  allowed  Plan£on  to  stride  across  the  full  width 
of  the  stage,  with  little  Bauermeister  clinging  to  his 
arm  and  pattering  beside  him,  before  he  found 
voice  to  say,  "Hasn't  Mr.  Legrand  told  you?" 

Heads  were  turned  in  the  row  in  front,  and  there 
was  a  movement  of  disapproval  in  the  stalls  around 
them,  so  that  the  exchange  of  confidences  came  tem 
porarily  to  an  end.  Once  more  his  spiritual  antennae 
found  themselves  in  play,  and  while  he  was  glad  of 
the  respite  for  himself,  he  was  conscious  during  the 
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whole  of  the  scene  in  which  Marguerite  dons  her 
jewels,  and  makes  ready  for  her  downfall,  of  the 
agonized  curiosity  of  the  poor  little  woman  by  his 
side.  Happily,  like  Esther,  he  was  still  young  and 
ardent  enough  to  have  little  place  in  his  mind  for 
anything  but  what  was  passing  on  the  stage.  He  was 
thinking  of  Hilda  and  his  own  romance  all  through 
the  rapturous,  languorous  duet  in  which  the  two  most 
moving  voices  of  the  age  melted  together  in  an  al 
most  unbearable  love-sweetness.  His  consciousness 
of  Mrs.  Legrand's  distress  was  like  the  dull  aching  of 
a  nerve  in  the  midst  of  entrancing  preoccupations. 
He  could  mentally  postpone  feeling  it  till  he  couldn't 
do  anything  else. 

That  minute  came  with  the  falling  of  the  curtain 
on  the  second  act.  Like  the  rattle  of  tiny  artillery 
the  applause  swept  the  house  from  the  stalls  to  the 
topmost  gallery.  There  was  no  indiscretion  in 
speaking,  for  Esther  sat  rapt,  her  eyes  on  the  cur 
tain,  as  though  she  had  seen  a  vision  that  at  any 
minute  might  reappear. 

"Are  you  going  to  be  married?" 

There  was  an  imperious  ring  in  the  question.  It 
made  him  feel  that  if  he  were  Mrs.  Legrand  herself 
would  be  wronged. 

"I  thought  Mr.  Legrand  would  tell  you,"  he  said, 
nervously. 

"He  never  tells  me  anything;  don't  you  know  he 
doesn't?"  Then  peremptorily,  after  a  pause:  "Who 
is  it  to?" 

As  best  he  could  in  such  a  secret,  whispered  con 
ference  he  gave  the  facts.  There  was  no  time  to 
do  more,  for  when  the  singers  had  ceased  to  pass  and 
repass  before  the  curtain  Esther  turned  to  say, 

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with  glowing  face,  across  their  host:  "Oh,  mother, 
isn't  it  wonderful?  Isn't  it  enchanting?" 

No  more  was  said  of  the  young  man's  private 
affairs  until  the  last  curtain  had  gone  down  and  they 
were  putting  on  their  wraps  to  go  home.  He  was 
holding  Mrs.  Legrand's  cloak  for  her  convenience  in 
slipping  it  on  when  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  over  her 
shoulder:  "Don't  tell  her.  Leave  me  to  do  that." 

He  nodded  as  though  he  understood,  but  as  a 
matter  of  fact  he  didn't  understand  at  all.  He  was 
bewildered,  unhappy.  He  felt  guilty  again,  with 
the  unaccountable  sense  of  guilt  that  had  beset 
him  for  the  last  four  days,  and  which  he  had  only 
just  succeeded  in  getting  rid  of. 

"Well,  who  wouldn't?"  was  Sophy's  unsympathetic 
remark,  when  he  had  confided  the  whole  affair 
to  her.  "I  should  think  you'd  be  ashamed  of  your 
self — all  round." 

Sophy  and  her  husband  had  come  from  Ottawa, 
"to  do  the  theaters,"  and  incidentally  take  in  the 
wedding.  As  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Francis  Colet, 
Sophy  was  distinctly  the  Englishwoman  now,  speak 
ing,  dressing,  and  wearing  her  hair,  all  in  the  char 
acter.  With  the  high  coiffure  affected  by  the  lady 
who  two  years  later  was  to  become  Queen  Alexandra, 
her  little  face,  with  its  big  eyes  and  big  mouth, 
would  have  been  top-heavy  had  not  marriage  given 
her  figure  a  general  expansion.  Being  the  mother 
of  a  fine  boy,  who,  if  enough  people  died,  would  some 
day  be  an  earl,  she  had  gained  in  dignity,  too;  so 
that  when  she  delivered  her  opinion  to  Charlie 
Grace  she  spoke  as  one  with  authority. 

They  were  seated  in  that  long  corridor  of  the 
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Waldorf  Hotel  to  which,  in  the  nineties,  people  from 
the  West  and  the  South  and  New  England  came  to 
wear  their  fine  clothes  and  look  at  each  other  and 
fancy  they  were  seeing  New  York.  Charlie  Grace 
himself  was  not  yet  so  sophisticated  as  to  be  free 
from  this  delusion,  though  Sophy,  with  English 
hauteur,  looked  on  with  detachment,  as  ladies  with 
Nebraskan  or  Californian  faces  and  Parisian  frocks 
gathered  in  groups  or  strolled  up  and  down,  enjoy 
ing  the  daring  publicity. 

"I  can't  see  that,"  Charlie  Grace  protested.  "I 
haven't  done  anything — " 

"You've  done  enough  to  make  Hilda  break  her 
engagement — if  she  treated  you  as  you  deserve.  I 
should  like  to  see  Frank  Colet  taking  girls  and  their 
mothers  to  dinner  at  the  Blitz — and  the  opera  after 
ward — without  me" 

"That's  another  thing.  Frank  Colet  is  mar- 
ried- 

"And  you're  more  than  married.  You're  en 
gaged.  Don't  you  see  that?" 

He  pursed  up  his  mouth,  after  a  fashion  he  had. 
"H'm!  I  can't  say  that  I  do.  Perhaps  it's  too 
subtle- 

"It's  only  too  subtle  because  you're  a  goose. 
There  are  ways  in  which  an  engaged  man  has  to  be 
more  careful  than  a  married  one.  If  you  were 
married  you  might — at  a  pinch — only  at  a  pinch, 
mind  you — do  this  very  same  thing — and  it  wouldn't 
be  misunderstood.  I  don't  advise  you  to  do  it; 
but  if  you  did,  you  could  only  get  into  trouble  on 
one  side.  Now  you're  in  trouble  on  both  sides,  and 
you  richly  deserve  it." 

He  was  silent  a  minute,  lost  in  reflection.  "You 
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talk  as  if  marriage  were  a  sort  of  signing  one's  soul 
away — "  he  began,  slowly. 

"So  it  is — for  a  man — almost.  For  a  woman  it's 
different.  Marriage  is  an  extension  of  a  woman's 
privileges;  but  for  a  man  it's  a  curtailment  of  his. 
It  has  to  be  that  way." 

"But  suppose  the  man  says  it  hasn't?" 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter  what  you  say.  It  just — is. 
It  would  work  that  way  even  if  you  signed  a  paper 
beforehand  that  it  shouldn't.  It's  nature;  and  if 
I  were  you,  Charlie — " 

"Yes?     If  you  were  me?" 

"Well,  I  was  only  going  to  say — some  one  ought 
to  say  it,  and  it  might  as  well  be  me — I  was  only 
going  to  say  that  if  I  were  you  I  should  give  up  that 
way  of  talking  to  every  woman  you  meet  as  if  you 
were  in  love  with  her.  It  doesn't  do  you  any  good, 
and  it's  misleading  to  her.  The  world  is  full  of 
women  who  just  want  the  slightest  excuse  to  think 
that  men  are  in  love  with  them,  and  you're  the  type 
that  makes  them  such  geese." 

"Will  you  kindly  tell  me  what  way  you  mean?" 

"There!  I  mean  that.  I  mean  looking  at  me  with 
pitiful  eyes,  as  if  I'd  hurt  you — and  leaning  toward 
me  as  if  you  expected  me  to  stroke  your  hair — and 
speaking  plaintively  and  timidly,  like  a  naughty  boy 
who's  up  to  mischief.  If  I  weren't  your  aunt,  or 
your  niece,  or  whatever  it  is — I  never  can  remem 
ber  whether  you're  my  uncle,  or  I'm  your  aunt — but, 
now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it,  you're  my  uncle — 
well,  if  you  weren't  my  uncle,  you'd  almost  make 
me  feel  at  times  as  if  you  were  in  love  with  me. 
Fortunately,  I'm  not  a  goose,  and  so  I  should  see 
through  you,  even  if  we  weren't  related  at  all.  But 

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all  women  are  not  like  me — and  Hilda  isn't.  She's 
sensitive.  She'll  be  all  the  more  sensitive  because 
she's  older  than  you  are — 

He  moved  impatiently.  "That's  got  nothing  to 
do  with  it,"  he  said,  shortly.  "The  question  of  age 
doesn't  affect  either  of  us." 

"It  doesn't  affect  her  perhaps  so  much  as  you. 
When  a  man  chooses — chooses,  mind  you— to  marry  a 
woman  older  than  himself,  he's  got  to  be  doubly  ten 
der  with  her  to  make  her  feel  sure  he  doesn't  regret 
it.  I  don't  say  he's  more  likely  to  regret  it  than  he 
would  be  if  she  was  younger — only  she'll  think  he  is. 
If  I  were  older  than  Frank  I  shouldn't  let  him  out 
of  my  sight  for  an  hour.  I  hardly  do,  as  it  is — " 

"You  begin  to  make  me  sorry  for  Frank." 

"Well,  I  don't  begin  to  make  Frank  sorry  for 
himself;  and  if  at  the  end  of  two  years  of  marriage 
you  can  say  the  same,  Charlie —  But  here's  Frank, 
with  the  tickets.  Let's  see  if  they're  for  'Zaza'  or 
'Lord  and  Lady  Algy." 

Acting  on  hints  in  the  foregoing  conversation, 
Charlie  Grace  was  specially  considerate  of  Hilda 
during  the  two  weeks  that  still  had  to  intervene 
before  the  day  of  the  wedding.  That  is  to  say,  he 
forbore  to  go  back  to  the  rectory  in  Vandiver  Place, 
or  to  mention  again  the  name  of  Esther  Legrand. 
In  his  heart  of  hearts  he  thought  such  reserves  a 
mistake.  It  gave  importance  to  a  thing  of  no 
moment,  and  conveyed  the  impression  of  its  being  a 
topic  too  fragile  to  be  aired.  He  yielded  against  his 
better  judgment  only  because  Sophy's  kittenlike 
face  had  grown  so  wise  and  her  words  so  imperative. 
He  would  have  been  glad  if  Hilda  had  begun  on  the 
subject,  but  beyond  the  hope  that  he  had  had  a 

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pleasant  evening  at  the  opera  she  had  said  nothing. 
He  regretted  this  the  more  because  of  seeing,  by  the 
processes  of  supersensuous  perception  he  had  so 
suddenly  developed,  that  she  had  not  dismissed  the 
matter  from  her  mind. 

Through  Holy  Week  he  saw  relatively  little  of  her 
on  account  of  her  diligence  in  attending  services. 
On  the  morning  of  Easter  day  he  accompanied  her 
to  one  of  the  larger  churches  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Fifth  Avenue.  She  had  not  asked  him  to  do  this, 
but  he  knew  his  coming  would  please  her.  And  yet, 
by  a  natural  chain  of  associations,  the  service  car 
ried  his  mind  to  persistent  thinking  of  Esther  Le- 
grand.  As,  in  his  musical  bass,  he  joined  in  the 
familiar  hymns,  "The  strife  is  o'er,  the  battle  done" 
and  "Jesus  Christ  is  risen  to-day,"  his  thoughts 
traveled  back  to  the  time  when  he  had  piped  them 
in  his  boyish  treble  in  the  choir  of  St.  David's.  It 
was  inevitable  that  present  conditions  at  St.  David's 
should  then  present  themselves  and  that  he  should 
begin  thinking  with  distress  of  his  caddishness  in  not 
having  gone  again  to  see  the  Legrands.  It  was  as 
if  he  had  accepted  Mrs.  Legrand's  implication  that 
his  presence  might  be  a  danger  to  Esther.  He  knew 
it  was  nothing  of  the  kind.  He  knew  that  Mrs. 
Legrand  herself  didn't  think  so.  And  yet  if  he  had 
gone,  there  would  have  been  a  renewal  of  complica 
tions  with  Hilda.  To  a  man  unaccustomed  to  subtle 
ties  the  situation  was  perplexing.  For  Hilda's  sake 
he  must  seem  to  drop  the  Legrands  and  submit  to 
their  considering  him  a  boor.  He  must  certainly 
do  that  till  after  he  was  married,  when,  according  to 
Sophy's  dicta,  there  would  be  less  necessity  for  being 
careful.  But  the  day  of  his  marriage  would  also 

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be  the  day  of  his  leaving  New  York,  so  that  atone 
ment  was  cut  off  in  that  direction  also.  He  could 
only  resolve  that  if  ever  he  returned  he  would  do 
what  he  could  to  make  amends. 

The  service  produced  no  impression  on  him  at  all, 
unless  it  was  to  confirm  him  in  his  wisdom  in  never 
attending  church.  It  was  restless,  noisy,  preten 
tious,  over-elaborate.  A  remarkably  well-dressed 
assembly  of  gentlemen  and  ladies  seemed  to  have 
deputed  their  devotions  entirely  to  some  forty  men 
and  boys,  who,  as  he  knew  from  his  own  past  ex 
perience,  had  for  the  most  part  neither  knowledge  of 
what  they  were  doing  nor  heart  in  it,  except  in  so 
far  as  they  were  paid.  He  took  them  as  being  on 
precisely  the  same  footing  as  the  chorus  at  the 
opera,  and  not  so  entertaining.  The  lessons  were 
read  in  the  untrained,  unintelligible  manner  which 
in  churches  is  apparently  held  good  enough  for  the 
Word  of  God,  though  the  sermon  he  called  excel 
lent  unreservedly. 

"If  they'd  only  clear  out  the  choir,"  he  said  to 
Hilda,  as  amid  the  Easter  throng  they  walked  down 
Fifth  Avenue  in  the  direction  of  the  cross-street 
where  the  Merediths  lived,  "and  have  something 
simple  and  sincere  like  the  sermon,  I  might  go  again." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  timidly,  mistily.  "Char 
lie,  by  this  time  next  week  we  shall  be  married." 

"Yes,  darling,  thank  God." 

"You  say  that  so  fervently  that  you  make  me 
believe  you.  And  yet  I  wonder — ' 

"You  wonder,"  he  broke  in,  with  a  laugh,  "if  I 
mightn't  do  better  to  marry  some  one  else." 

"Some  one  younger.  I  do  think  it  a  risk,  Charlie 
—both  on  }^our  part  and  mine." 

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He  slipped  his  arm  through  hers,  drawing  her 
toward  him.  "All  marriage  is  a  risk,  darling.  But 
when  a  man  adores  his  wife  as  I  adore  you,  don't 
you  think  the  risk  is  minimized?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled  through  tears. 
"I  must  believe  that,"  she  said,  with  conviction. 
"I  must." 

Two  days  later  Charlie  Grace  stood  in  the  old 
schoolroom  of  St.  David's  listening  to  Remnant. 

"I  kind  o'  thought  you'd  ha'  had  the  choir  and 
a  swell  weddin',  Mr.  Charlie.  It  don't  seem  right 
for  you  to  be  married  in  a  hole  and  corner  way  like 
this.  I  don't  believe  your  pa  would  ha'  liked  it,  nor 
your  poor  ma.  Your  pa  especially  was  a  great  one 
for  having  things  done  stylish.  There  was  nothing 
he  liked  better  than  one  of  them  great  rich  weddings, 
with  people  climbing  over  the  backs  of  the  pews  to 
look  at  the  bride,  and  the  quartette  singing  up  in  the 
old  gallery  to  beat  the  band,  and  all  New  York,  as 
you  might  say,  assembled  in  old  St.  David's.  He'd 
swell  up  then,  and  look  as  grand  as  if  he  was  being 
married  himself.  They  don't  have  'em  nowadays. 
Marriage  ain't  what  it  used  to  be.  If  it  had  been 
I  might  ha'  been  tempted  to  it  myself.  But  as  soon 
as  I'd  begun  to  think  of  it  I  could  see  it  was  going 
down.  It'  11  be  out  altogether  one  of  these  days— 
with  all  this  divorcin'.  I  guess  there's  about  two 
divorces  nowadays  to  every  marriage,  and  pretty 
soon  it  '11  be  all  divorces.  Well,  that's  one  thing 
we  don't  have  at  St.  David's,  anyhow.  Parson 
Legrand  is  dead  again'  it.  He'll  marry,  but  he'll  not 
divorce — and  that's  pretty  near  the  only  point  where 
I  agree  with  him." 

Charlie  Grace  cast  his  eyes  round  the  old  room, 
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with  its  worn  cocoanut  matting  and  dingy  walls. 
"How  would  you  like  to  have  a  brand-new  parish 
house,  Remnant,  with  everything  spruce  and  con 
venient  for  your  cooking-classes  and  sewing-bees  and 
all  the  rest  of  it?" 

Remnant  threw  up  his  hands  with  a  despairing 
gesture.  "That's  one  thing,  Mr.  Charlie,  as  I  pray 
the  Lord  '11  spare  us.  God  knows  we've  got  riff 
raff  enough  now;  but  it  'u'd  be  all  riffraff  if  we  had 
one  o'  them  things.  I've  seen  'em.  I've  been  in 
'em.  They'll  draw  a  low  crowd  quicker  than  a  fat 
man  '11  tempt  mosquitoes.  It  '11  be  boys'  clubs,  and 
girls'  clubs,  and  teas  for  old  women,  and  this  one 
learning  that  thing,  and  that  one  learning  another 
thing,  till  we'll  be  drove  right  off  our  nut.  And 
it  '11  all  come  on  me,  Mr.  Charlie.  I'll  have  to  spend 
the  rest  of  my  life  cleanin'  up  after  them  as  I'd  like 
to  clean  off  the  face  of  the  earth  once  for  all.  Not 
but  what  I'd  have  the  time,  for  I  don't  hardly  take 
no  pains  with  the  church  nowadays.  What  'u'd  be 
the  good — with  the  low  crowd  that  comes  here?  It 
was  different  in  the  old  days,  when  Mrs.  Horn- 
blower  'u'd  be  as  partic'lar  about  her  pew  as  if  she 
meant  to  strip  and  go  to  bed  in  it.  Ah,  she  was  a 
lady  for  you!  Nothin'  like  her  nowadays!  They 
don't  make  'em,  Mr.  Charlie.  Not  but  what  you 
may  have  got  one  of  the  same  breed  yourself.  I'm 
sure  I  hope  you  have,  if  there's  any  of  that  kind  left 
alive,  which  I  don't  hardly  think  there  is.  Well, 
I'll  just  slip  down  to  the  door  to  see  if  the  bride  is 
coming.  I'll  let  you  know,  Mr.  Charlie;  you  needn't 
fret.  You  just  stay  here  quiet  till  I  give  you  the 
word.  Then  you'll  go  out  and  stand  at  the  foot  ot 
the  chancel  steps  till  Miss  Emma's  husband  brings 

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her  up  to  you.  You've  got  the  ring  in  your  waist 
coat  pocket,  haven't  you?  That's  all  right  then. 
You  should  ha'  had  a  best  man  to  attend  to  that, 
Mr.  Charlie.  But  don't  fret.  I'll  see  you  through. 
And  I'll  have  your  hat  and  gloves  and  overcoat  down 
at  the  main  door,  so  that  you  won't  have  to  worry 
about  nothin'  after  you've  give  the  bride  your  arm. 
And  you're  sure  you  don't  want  the  bells  rung? 
It  'u'd  be  a  pleasure  to  do  it  for  you,  Mr.  Charlie; 
and  it  'u'd  seem  more  proper  like.  Ah,  well!  Just 
as  you  say.  People  don't  get  married  nowadays 
like  what  they  used  to." 

Five  minutes  later  Charlie  Grace  stood  at  the 
chancel  steps,  where  Rufus  Legrand,  in  surplice  and 
stole,  with  prayer-book  open,  had  already  taken  his 
place.  The  young  man  felt  oddly  apathetic.  Con 
sciously  or  subconsciously  he  had  had  this  moment 
in  view  for  nearly  twelve  years,  but  now  that  it  had 
come  it  found  him  without  emotion.  Before  Hilda 
appeared  on  Osborne's  arm  in  the  doorway  at  the 
end  of  the  aisle  there  were  still  a  few  minutes,  dur 
ing  which  his  eye  roved  idly  over  the  little  gathering 
of  friends.  In  the  front  pew,  on  the  right,  Emma, 
Sophy,  and  Frank  sat  together.  In  the  correspond 
ing  seat  on  the  other  side  were  Mr.  and  Miss  Purvis, 
with  two  or  three  men  with  whom  he  was  on  easy 
terms  in  the  New  York  office  of  the  Trans-Canadian. 
Behind  them,  in  the  pew  she  had  been  wont  to  oc 
cupy  in  former  years,  was  Mrs.  Furnival,  richly 
dressed  as  usual,  but  showing  at  last,  and  all  of  a 
sudden,  the  ravages  of  time.  Beside  her  was 
Freddy,  stout,  spectacled,  and  serious,  already  mak 
ing  a  reputation  for  himself  among  the  physicians 
of  New  York.  Directly  behind  Emma  and  her 

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family  came  the  ladies  Meredith,  the  mother  and 
three  daughters,  while  behind  them  again,  in  the 
place  that  had  been  hers  for  fifty  years  and  her 
mother's  before  her — old,  purblind,  looking  as  if 
her  clothes  were  dangerously  near  slipping  from  her 
person — was  Miss  Smedley,  accompanied  by  a 
trained  nurse.  Far  back  in  the  church,  an  unbidden 
spectator  of  the  ceremony,  he  could  see  Esther 
Legrand.  Mrs.  Legrand  wasn't  there. 

He  was  not  nervous.  He  was,  in  fact,  more  self- 
possessed  than  he  felt  he  had  a  right  to  be.  After 
making  an  effort  to  capture  the  sentiment  he  deemed 
fitting  to  the  moment,  he  could  do  no  more  than  re 
call  the  day  when  he  had  found  Remnant,  on  the 
very  spot  where  he  himself  was  now  standing,  dust 
ing  the  trestles  on  which  was  presently  to  repose  the 
body  of  old  Mrs.  Badger.  Even  when  the  doors 
opened  at  the  end  of  the  nave,  and  Osborne  and 
Hilda  began  to  come  slowly  up  the  aisle,  he  could 
think  of  nothing  but  the  fact  that  Osborne  was 
better  looking  since  he  had  grown  a  beard,  which 
concealed  his  bulldog  chin,  and  that  Hilda's  traveling- 
dress  of  terra-cotta  brown,  with  cuffs  and  a  sort 
of  waistcoat  of  dark  green,  was  entirely  to  his  taste. 
He  could  scarcely  see  her  features,  partly  because 
she  walked  with  head  slightly  bowed,  and  partly 
because  her  face  was  shaded  by  a  large,  black- 
plumed  hat. 

Nevertheless,  he  was  aware  of  a  sudden  thrill 
when  Rufus  Legrand's  voice  began  solemnly: 

"Dearly  beloved,  we  are  gathered  together  here, 
in  the  sight  of  God,  and  in  the  face  of  this  company, 
to  join  together  this  Man  and  this  Woman  in  holy 
Matrimony.": 

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There  was  something  primal  in  this,  something 
that  came  down  to  the  facts  without  blinking  them. 
So,  too,  when  the  same  voice,  lowered  till  it  became 
awesome,  addressed  itself  personally  to  them: 

"'I  require  and  charge  you  both,  as  ye  will  answer 
at  the  dreadful  day  of  judgment  when  the  secrets 
of  all  hearts  shall  be  disclosed,  that  if  either  of  you 
know  any  impediment  why  ye  may  not  be  lawfully 
joined  together  in  matrimony,  ye  do  now  confess 
it." 

To  the  best  of  Charlie  Grace's  belief  there  was  no 
such  impediment,  and  yet  during  the  pause  in  which 
Rufus  Legrand  seemed  to  look  expectantly  about  the 
church,  as  if  waiting  for  some  one  to  forbid  the  cere 
mony,  he  had  a  foolish  sinking  of  the  heart.  It  was 
a  relief  when  no  interruption  came,  and  the  solemn 
voice  went  on.  It  was  the  more  solemn  in  using 
the  unaccustomed  baptismal  names,  which  seemed 
to  isolate  the  Man  and  the  Woman  from  the  world 
and  all  its  conventions,  like  a  new  Adam  and  a  new 
Eve,  at  the  beginning  of  a  new  creation. 

"Charles  Gunnison,  wilt  thou  have  this  Woman 
to  thy  wedded  wife  ...  ?" 

"Hilda  Mary  Antonia,  wilt  thou  have  this  Man 
to  thy  wedded  husband.  .  .  ?" 

"I,  Charles  Gunnison,  take  thee,  Hilda  Mary 
Antonia,  to  my  wedded  wife,  to  have  and  to  hold 
from  this  day  forward  .  .  .  ." 

"I,  Hilda  Mary  Antonia,  take  thee,  Charles  Gun 
nison,  to  my  wedded  husband,  to  have  and  to  hold 
from  this  day  forward.  .  .  ." 

When,  after  the  bestowal  of  the  ring,  the  Man  and 
the  Woman  followed  the  priest  to  the  altar  rail,  and, 
kneeling  side  by  side,  repeated  together  the  Lord's 

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Prayer,  Charlie  Grace  found  at  last  the  emotion  he 
had  been  in  search  of. 

In  the  west  porch,  when  all  was  over,  there  was  a 
confusion  of  congratulations,  kissing,  crying,  and 
shaking  hands.  The  bridegroom  had  not  been  really 
nervous  till  then.  He  made  now  the  traditional 
mistakes  of  almost  embracing  old  Mr.  Purvis,  while 
saluting  Emma  with  a  handshake,  creating  the  tra 
ditional  amusement.  He  was  obliged,  moreover,  to 
submit  to  Remnant's  ministrations  in  the  matter  of 
overcoat,  hat,  and  gloves.  What  perturbed  him 
more,  perhaps,  than  anything  else  was  the  sight  of 
Esther  Legrand  standing  against  the  small  door 
that  led  to  the  old  organ  loft — a  little  aloof — looking 
at  the  party  with  the  timid  smile  of  the  child  who 
has  not  been  invited  to  join  it.  It  was  purely  acci 
dental  that  she  had  this  appealing  pose,  this  wistful 
air  of  exclusion,  while  her  coloring  was  no  more 
beautiful  than  it  was  at  any  other  time;  but  some 
thing  in  the  reunion  of  qualities  smote  Charlie 
Grace  to  the  heart.  If  it  had  been  possible  he  would 
have  caught  her  in  his  arms  as  he  would  have  caught 
a  lonely  child.  As  it  was  he  could  only  approach 
her  circumspectly,  shaking  hands,  thanking  her  in 
coherently  for  her  kind  wishes,  and  bidding  her 
good-by. 

They  were  already  in  the  carriage,  and  Remnant 
was  closing  the  door  with  a  "God  bless  you,  Mr. 
Charlie;  God  bless  the  young  lady,  too,"  and  a 
pathetic  expression  in  the  bleared  old  eyes,  when 
Esther  Legrand  appeared  impulsively.  Her  face 
glowed  and  her  violet  eyes  grew  liquid  as  Charlie 
Grace  had  seen  them  once  or  twice  before.  She 
stretched  out  her  hand  to  Hilda. 

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"Oh,  I  know  you'll  be  happy,  Mrs.  Grace.  You've 
married  the  kindest  man  in  the  world." 

As  they  turned  to  drive  up  Vandiver  Place  Charlie 
Grace  lifted  his  wife's  veil  and  kissed  her.  For  a 
long  time  neither  of  them  spoke.  It  was  Hilda  who 
broke  the  silence  first. 

"She  is  beautiful — that  girl — more  so  than  you 
said." 

He  answered,  simply:  "Yes,  she  is.  And  I  think 
she's  a  good  girl,  too." 

"I'm  sure  of  it." 

There  was  another  long  silence  as  they  sat  hand  in 
hand,  driving  up  the  long  straight  line  of  Madison 
Avenue  toward  the  station.  They  had  almost  reached 
their  goal  when  Hilda  laid  her  cheek  against  his 
shoulder. 

"Charlie,  dear,  I'm  so  happy  that  I'm  afraid. 
Are  you  quite,  quite  sure  that  you  shouldn't  have 
married — some  one  younger?" 


CHAPTER  VII 

ONCE  she  was  seated  in  her  stateroom  in  the 
train,  Hilda  recovered  her  spirits.  She  did 
more;  she  became  vivacious.  American  methods 
of  travel  being  relatively  new  to  her,  she  took  much 
interest  in  the  details  of  her  personal  surroundings 
and  the  departure  from  New  York.  Almost  for  the 
first  time  since  he  had  known  her  Charlie  Grace 
found  her  light-hearted.  There  was  nothing  excited 
in  her  manner,  nor  febrile.  She  was  simply  at  ease 
in  her  new  situation — more  so  than  he. 

That  fact  was  borne  in  on  him  as  the  train  rattled 
northward  through  the  wistful  spring  twilight,  and 
he  looked  out  at  a  windy  sunset,  all  of  dull  orange 
barred  with  black.  He  was  married!  He  was 
proud;  he  was  happy;  and  yet  he  was — married. 
He  began  to  understand  that  something  had  hap 
pened  to  him.  He  had  started  out  with  the  radiant 
young  lady  opposite  to  travel,  first  to  Montreal,  then 
to  Winnipeg,  then  to  the  Pacific  coast— and  then 
always.  He  wondered  whether  he  had  ever  done 
justice  to  this  last  aspect  of  the  married  state.  Was 
it  possible  that  he  had  viewed  matrimony  hitherto 
chiefly  as  an  episode?  Life  as  he  had  known  it  had 
been  all  episodes — brief,  intense  periods,  each  one 
of  which  had  come  to  an  end,  to  be  followed  by 
something  equally  intense,  but  equally  fleeting. 
He  was  prepared  to  admit  that  in  these  various 

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situations,  whether  of  love  or  labor,  the  fleeting 
element  had  been  the  best.  The  knowledge  that  he 
would  soon  be  up  and  off  again  gave  zest  to  each 
moment  of  seeming  repose,.  And  now  it  was  possible 
— barely  possible — that  he  might  never  be  up  and 
off  any  more. 

He  was  proud;  he  was  happy;  he  made  not  the 
slightest  question  of  that;  but  he  was  surprised. 
He  was  surprised  at  the  subtle  change  in  Hilda's 
manner;  he  was  surprised  at  her  matter-of-course 
acceptance  of  the  conditions  which  the  ceremony 
of  the  afternoon  had  imposed  on  them.  It  was 
almost  as  if  she  found  marriage — natural;  as  if  she 
took  the  prospect  of  a  lifelong  intimate  companion 
ship  without  dismay.  True,  she  had  no  wild  freedoms, 
no  cherished  secrecies,  no  happy-go-lucky  vagabond 
ages  to  give  up.  She  had  always  been  answerable 
to  another  person,  and  would  doubtless  find  a  life 
without  restrictions  as  formidable  as  a  canary  bird 
a  life  without  a  cage.  He  began  to  perceive — or  to 
think  he  perceived — that  her  happiness  lay  not  in 
the  fact  that  she  had  got  out  of  the  cage,  but  that 
some  one  else  had  got  in.  There  was  a  minute, 
a  swiftly  passing  minute,  of  alarm  lest  marriage 
should  prove  not  a  co-operation  but  a  captivity. 

It  was  a  swiftly  passing  minute  because  she  made 
it  so.  If  she  took  possession  of  him  it  was  with  a 
gentle,  winning  grace  that  made  service  the  highest 
kind  of  privilege.  When  he  pulled  her  dressing-bag 
from  the  rack  overhead,  as  he  had  to  do  a  good 
many  times  during  the  first  three  hours  of  married 
life,  now  for  a  book,  now  for  a  cushion,  now  for  a 
bottle  of  cologne,  the  smile  with  which  she  rewarded 
him  was  more  than  compensation  for  the  nuisance 
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he  secretly  felt  it  to  be  lifting  the  confounded  thing 
up  and  down.  It  was  the  sort  of  service  to  which  he 
was  willing  to  vow  himself  in  bondage.  He  was 
eager  to  fetch  and  carry  and  be  her  slave  in  all 
material  things  if  only  in  the  inner  life,  in  certain 
personal  elements,  non-essential  to  married  happi 
ness  as  he  conceived  of  it,  she  would  leave  him  free. 
And  yet,  oddly  enough,  from  the  minute  when 
practical  life  began  next  day  at  Montreal  the  desire 
for  freedom  left  him.  There  was  nothing  for  which 
he  wanted  liberty.  On  the  contrary,  such  liberty  as 
he  had  became  a  bore.  He  had  certain  meetings 
to  attend,  certain  men  to  see  on  business,  a  certain 
time  to  spend  each  day  in  the  offices  of  the  Trans- 
Canadian.  When  these  duties  were  ended  he  was 
but  too  anxious  to  return  to  his  wife.  It  was  so  at 
Winnipeg;  it  was  so  at  Forde;  it  was  so  at  Queen 
Charlotte.  It  was  so  when  private  interests,  his 
own  and  Osborne's,  took  him  to  Seattle,  San  Fran 
cisco,  and  Los  Angeles.  He  had  never  dreamed  that 
there  could  be  so  delightful,  so  intelligent  a  travel 
ing  companion.  Her  knowledge  of  European  coun 
tries  enabled  her  to  appraise  the  beauties  of  American 
scenery  better  than  he  could  himself.  All  sorts  of 
places  that  he  had  looked  at  hitherto  with  unseeing 
eyes  became  vivid,  significant,  in  the  light  of  her 
power  of  comparison.  Her  power  of  comparison 
made  it  possible  for  her  not  only  to  appreciate  but 
to  differentiate,  to  get  relative  values.  A  prairie- 
town  in  Alberta,  a  logging-camp  in  Washington,  an 
orange  orchard  in  California,  became  to  her  not 
mere  isolated  objects  of  interest,  representing  so 
much  investment  or  such  and  such  earning  capacity, 
as  they  had  always  been  to  him,  but  assets  toward  the 

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welfare  of  the  race.  Vast  tracts  unsettled,  untilled, 
or  uncleared  were  a  perpetual  joy  to  her.  "All  this 
for  the  poor  old  overcrowded  human  race  still  to 
come  and  occupy!"  she  would  exclaim.  There  was 
nothing  so  simple  that  she  couldn't  enjoy  it  or  so 
rough  and  crude  that  she  couldn't  take  it  with  a 
smile.  She  had  all  the  advantages  that  belong 
so  conspicuously  to  an  older  civilization  when  it 
comes  into  sympathetic  contact  with  a  new  one. 

She  maintained,  for  example,  an  extraordinary 
interest  throughout  the  journey  over  the  desert  from 
Los  Angeles  to  Salt  Lake  City.  While  other  passen 
gers  were  groaning  with  the  heat,  divesting  themselves 
of  articles  of  clothing  with  a  marvelous  sans-gene, 
she  sat  cool,  alert,  fascinated  by  the  ever-changing 
spectacle.  Through  windows  hermetically  sealed  a 
fine  sand  sifted  in,  covering  everything  with  a  coat 
ing  of  dust  and  filling  the  eyes  and  lungs.  Outside, 
queer,  spiny  things  twisted  themselves  painfully  out 
of  the  arid,  thirsty  soil.  Cacti,  grotesquely  human, 
stood  like  sentinels,  like  scarecrows,  like  ghosts,  or 
like  things  long  ago  crucified  and  still  hanging  on 
their  time-battered  crosses.  On  entering  Utah  the 
country  became  red,  blistered,  sore,  like  a  land  suffer 
ing  from  some  strange  earth-plague.  It  had  none 
of  the  awesome  fascination  of  the  California  desert; 
it  lay  twisted,  writhing,  agonized.  She  talked  of 
Brigham  Young,  of  the  heroism  of  the  early  followers 
of  the  prophet  Smith,  who  dragged  themselves  over 
this  joyless  tract  to  force  it  into  fertility.  As  fer 
tility  began  she  watched  for  the  scrubby  farms,  and 
the  tall,  sad  Lombardy  poplars  reminding  her  dis- 
antly  of  France.  At  the  stations  she  studied  the 
men  and  women,  especially  the  women,  who  passed 

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up  and  down  the  platforms — faded,  jaded,  fanatical 
— embodying  the  qualities  of  the  seared  and  salted 
soil.  In  the  city  she  was  intent  on  seeing  the  Lion 
House,  the  Beehive  House,  the  Amelia  Palace- 
homes  of  women  who  had  apparently  been  content 
each  with  a  shred  of  a  man's  love,  while  other  women 
took  the  rest.  She  speculated  as  to  how  far  they 
had  been  content — as  to  the  heart-aches  and  furies 
and  rebellions  that  must  have  been  sheltered  behind 
these  quiet  walls.  He  saw  it  was  the  women  who 
interested  her  particularly.  She  scrutinized  them 
in  the  streets;  she  made  pretexts  for  going  into 
Deseret  shops,  Deseret  banks,  Deseret  bookstores — 
always  with  an  eye  to  the  women,  to  their  faces,  to 
their  clothes,  to  the  indefinable  betrayals  through 
which  one  woman  delivers  up  her  secrets  to  an 
other.  He  began  to  understand  this  singular  pre 
occupation  when  they  were  at  dinner  in  the  hotel 
one  night. 

"Charlie,  how  can  a  woman  share  her  husband 
with  anybody  else?" 

Oddly  enough,  the  question  surprised  him  into  a 
feeling  of  self-consciousness.  He  had  an  idea  that 
he  colored.  He  took  a  sip  of  wine.  "I'm  sure  I 
don't  know,"  he  said,  lamely.  Then,  slightly 
ashamed  of  a  weakness  that  might  be  prejudicial 
to  his  own  interests,  he  added:  "Of  course,  one  has 
to  remember  that  women  are  not  like  men.  A 
woman's  sympathies  are  naturally  concentrated, 
while  a  man's — 

He  paused,  searching  for  a  word.  She  had  ceased 
to  eat.  On  the  other  side  of  the  table  she  sat  erect, 
with  the  fire  in  her  eyes  that  reminded  him  of  the 
ruby  light  in  amber. 

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"Yes,  Charlie?"  she  smiled.  "A  man's  are — 
what?  Go  on." 

"Well,  a  man's  are  likely  to  be — a  little — scat 
tered." 

She  weighed  his  words  before  she  spoke.  "If  I 
thought  you  really  believed  that,"  she  laughed,  "I 
could  find  it  in  my  heart  to — to  kill  you.  And  the 
worst  of  it  is,  I  think  you  do  believe  it." 

He  was  absurdly  embarrassed,  but  he  too  laughed. 
"Oh,  you  needn't  be  personal.  I  wasn't  thinking 
of  myself,  but  of  men  in  general." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  she  said,  taking  up  her  knife 
and  fork  again,  "that  you're  very  much  a  man  in 
general." 

"But  you're  not  a  woman  in  general,"  he  had  the 
wit  to  reply,  "so  that  we're  likely  to  get  along." 

"Does  that  mean  that  it  will  be  my  part  to — to 
make  the  concessions?  Because  if  it  does  .  .  .  Do 
you  remember  my  saying  once  that  I  could  be 
dangerous?" 

He  was  uncomfortable.  "I  remember  your  talk 
ing  nonsense.  By  the  way,  suppose  we  go  out  to 
the  Salt  Lake  to-morrow.  In  all  the  times  I've 
been  here  I've  never  seen  it." 

She  accepted  the  diversion,  and  on  the  following 
afternoon  they  made  the  excursion. 

Carried  by  the  train  to  the  end  of  a  pier  jutting 
out  a  half-mile  from  the  shore,  they  found  them 
selves  in  a  pavilion  which  seemed  to  them  a  dream 
like  distortion  of  the  Pavilion  de  la  Jetee  at  Nice. 
Brass-bands  were  playing;  crowds  were  promenad 
ing;  a  restaurant,  a  scenic  railway,  a  Choy  Chamber, 
a  Skee  Ball,  a  Gee  Whiz  Whirl,  a  Crystal  Maze,  a 
kiddies'  corner,  a  dancing-hall,  and  a  photographer's 

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saloon  were  all  in  operation.  In  swimming-pools, 
inclosed  by  miniature  docks  and  rows  of  dressing- 
rooms,  men  and  women,  boys  and  girls,  were  sport 
ing  in  the  shallow,  buoyant  water,  or  sunning  them 
selves  in  bathing-costumes  along  the  tiny  quays. 

Charlie  Grace  would  have  beaten  a  retreat  to  the 
city  by  the  return  train;  but  Hilda  preferred  to 
linger.  It  was  the  sort  of  gathering  as  to  which  she 
was  frankly  curious.  Owing  to  her  European  life, 
she  had  little  in  the  way  of  American  distaste  for 
the  masses.  The  scenic  railway  and  the  Crystal 
Maze  were  tolerably  familiar;  but  she  was  interested 
to  learn  the  nature  of  a  Choy  Chamber,  a  Skee  Ball, 
and  a  Gee  Whiz  Whirl.  Having  investigated  these 
mysteries,  they  wandered  to  a  belvedere  at  the  most 
distant  point  of  the  long,  lightly  constructed  jetty, 
and,  turning  their  backs  on  the  confused  murmur  of 
the  crowds,  could  sit  looking  out  at  the  immense 
polished  mirror  of  the  lake,  above  which  gulls 
swooped  and  circled  with  plaintive  cries. 

The  lake  was  a  polished  mirror  barely  dulled  by  the 
salty  evaporations  in  the  air.  With  the  late  after 
noon  sun  upon  it  the  glare  would  have  been  painful 
to  the  eyes  had  it  not  been  for  this  gentle  blur,  and 
the  relief  of  jagged  rocky  islets  lifting  themselves 
boldly,  like  Ischia  or  Capri.  Except  for  their  solid 
masses  of  earth-brown  and  the  fire  of  the  sun,  every 
thing  was  of  shimmering  silver. 

It  was  the  air  that  caught  color  first.  "Oh,  look!" 
Hilda  cried,  clutching  her  husband's  sleeve. 

High  above  the  lake  there  was  all  at  once  a  quiver 
of  green,  like  the  green  flash  of  a  flitting  humming 
bird.  It  was  a  flash  and  no  more  at  first,  till,  by 
dint  of  sheer  looking,  it  became  steadied,  permanent, 

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descending  with  a  tremor  of  the  eyelids  to  the  bosom 
of  the  lake,  where  the  silver  mirror  became  a  jewel 
of  pale  chrysoprasus.  In  the  same  instant  the 
jagged  islet  on  the  right  was  of  burnished  copper, 
with  reflections  of  ruby  and  dull  gold.  That  on  the 
left  was  a  tremulous  blue,  with  the  blue  not  of  cloud 
but  of  gleaming  enamel.  The  central  islet,  and 
most  distant  of  the  three,  was  curiously  changeable 
— now  shining  like  a  rose-quartz,  now  burning  like 
a  topaz,  now  darkening  to  obsidian  bottle-green, 
and  now  lying  dim  and  lusterless  like  an  agate. 
Out  of  an  amethystine  haze  deep  purple  mountains 
emerged  on  the  farther  shore,  receding  again  into  a 
purple  deeper  still  as  the  sun  came  lower,  and  the 
pale,  green  surface  of  the  water  began  to  reflect 
shades  of  flame.  In  the  sky  itself,  below  the  fluc 
tuating  azure  of  the  zenith,  all  was  dusky  beaten 
gold,  except  where  a  few  bars  of  horizontal  cloud 
gave  forth  hues — indigo,  emerald,  violet — of  metals 
unknown  to  earthly  alchemists.  Everywhere  the 
sheen  was  metallic,  gemlike — the  beauty  of  a  world 
that,  knowing  neither  tree  nor  flower,  draws  its  re 
sources  from  the  primal,  structural  elements  of  the 
universe. 

In  the  midst  of  this  pageantry  it  was  possible  to 
close  the  mind  against  the  bray  of  the  brass-bands 
and  the  shrieking  of  the  Gee  Whiz  Whirl.  Charlie 
and  Hilda  Grace  were  long  silent.  It  was  enough  to 
sit  and  gaze  at  a  spectacle  that  transcended  expres 
sion  and  made  comment  futile.  Doubtless,  it  was  the 
wonder  of  it  all,  mingling  with  and  interpenetrating 
her  happiness,  that  caused  Hilda  to  say,  at  last, 
on  one  of  the  deepest  and  softest  of  her  alto 
notes: 

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"Charlie,  dear — I've  been  meaning  to  tell  you. 
.  .  .  One  of  these  days  we  must  have  a  home." 

He  answered  absently,  his  head  to  one  side,  while 
his  eye  tried  to  seize  in  the  air  an  interplay  of 
colors  more  subtly  iridescent  than  those  in  doves' 
necks:  "Yes,  dear;  in  New  York.  I  know  of  a  chap 
who's  building  to  sell — " 

"I'm  afraid  it  will  have  to  be  before  that." 
He  looked  at  her.     "Can't  we  stick  it  out — ?" 
She  shook  her  head.     "No,  Charlie  dear;    and  I 
shall  have  to  have  Emma,  or  Sophy,  or  Mrs.  Mere 
dith — or  some  one — to  stay  with  me  for  a  while." 

He  looked  at  her  more  sharply,  his  fair,  irregular 
eyebrows  drawn  into  a  questioning  frown.  He  had 
a  moment  of  alarm.  "You  don't  mean — "  he  be 
gan,  slowly. 

She  nodded.     "Yes,  Charlie,  dear." 
"Good  Lord!"  he  said,  under  his  breath. 
His  exclamation  was  one  of  surprise,  not  of  impa 
tience,  but  it  caused  her  to  turn  to  him  quickly. 
"Aren't  you  glad?     Oh,  say  you're  glad,  Charlie, 
dear." 

He  took  his  time.     "I  suppose  I  shall  be  glad— 
"Oh,  but  aren't  you  glad  now?" 
"Well,  it's  a  little  sudden,  you  know — " 
"I   don't  see  how  you  can  call  it  sudden  when 
we've  been  married  four  months." 
"I  mean  the  thought  is  sudden — " 
"Why,  haven't  you  been  thinking  of  it?" 
He  looked   confused.     "Of  course   I   know  such 
things  happen;   but  I've  thought  of  them  chiefly  as 
happening  to  other  people — 

"And  now  they're  going  to  happen  to  us!  Oh, 
Charlie,  you  can't  imagine  how  happy  it  makes  me. 

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...  I  was  going  to  tell  you  before,  but  somehow  I 
couldn't  .  .  .  till  now  this  wonderful  afternoon 
seems  to  have  taken  us  up  into  its  own  heaven.  It 
seems  the  minute  to  tell  you  .  .  .  when  everything 
is  so  transfigured.  ...  It  isn't  possible,  though,  to 
make  you  understand  how  marvelous  it  seems  to 
me  after  my  forlorn,  lonely  years.  .  .  .  You  were 
right  that  evening  when  you  said  I  was  lonely  and 
forlorn.  ...  I  was  proud,  too  .  .  .  and  shy  .  .  . 
and  frightened  ...  I  was  afraid  of  happiness  .  .  . 
I  fought  against  it  ...  I  fought  against  you,  Char 
lie,  ...  I  sent  you  away  ...  I  said  I  didn't  be 
lieve  in  you  .  .  .  but  that  was  only  partially  true. 
.  .  .  And  now  it  seems  to  me  .  .  .  don't  be  shocked 
.  .  .  I'm  not  saying  it  irreverently  .  .  .  but  it 
seems  to  me  as  though  some  extraordinary  annun 
ciation  had  been  made  to  me  ...  as  was  made  to 
Mary  .  .  .  and  as  if  I  were  singing  a  'Mag 
nificat.'" 

He  got  up  and  walked  to  the  railing  of  the  belve 
dere,  where  he  stood  looking  out  over  the  lake.  He 
was  not  thinking  now  of  its  wonders  as  a  transfor 
mation  scene.  His  mind  was  working  hard  in  other 
ways.  The  thought  of  being  a  father  came  to  him 
distinctly  as  a  shock.  It  was  something  he  had  not 
included  in  his  outlook,  not  in  his  immediate  out 
look,  certainly.  If  he  had  any  anticipation  of  it  at 
all  it  was  for  later,  when  he  should  be  older,  with  the 
roving  years  behind  him.  It  was  a  still  greater 
shock,  an  immeasurably  greater  shock,  to  associate 
Hilda  with  the  prospect  of  maternity.  That  had  in 
it  some  of  the  sharpness  of  a  blow.  It  was  impious, 
destructive.  It  was  a  desecration  of  her  daintiness, 
of  her  perfectness  as  exquisite  woman  of  the  world. 

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It  was  like  taking  something  rare  and  precious  to  put 
it  to  gross  utilitarian  purposes. 

That  was,  however,  beside  the  immediate  mark. 
If  the  thing  was  to  happen  it  meant  the  end  of  the 
delicious  wandering  idyl  that  he  had  planned  to  go  on 
for  some  months  to  come.  They  must  take  to  cover 
somewhere,  as  hatching  insects  take  to  earth. 

When  he  turned,  all  the  colors  of  the  water  and  the 
firmament  seemed  to  be  reflected  in  her  eyes.  As 
she  sat  with  hands  lying  idly  in  her  lap  and  her  gaze 
fixed  on  the  stupendous,  ever-transmuting  vision  of 
the  west,  she  was  like  a  creature  bathed  in  radiance 
and  rainbows.  Even  he  couldn't  help  thinking  of 
Mary — as  she  might  have  sat  after  the  angel  had 
gone  away.  He  went  to  her.  He  would  have  kissed 
her  had  he  dared  to  disturb  her  reverie.  When  he 
spoke,  his  words  sounded  woefully  commonplace  in 
his  own  ears,  though  the  smile  with  which  she 
listened  seemed  to  show  that  there  was  a  music  in 
them  to  hers. 

"Look  here,  darling.  We're  on  our  way  to  Min- 
nesaba,  where  Osborne  wants  me  to  look  after  some 
iron  interests  of  his — and  mine — and  this  may  keep 
me  a  considerable  time.  Osborne  has  a  house  there 
— empty — except  for  the  caretakers.  Why  shouldn't 
I  arrange  to  make  it  my  headquarters  for  a  year  or 
so?  I  know  I  could — now  that  for  the  time  being 
I'm  not  on  any  one  job  in  particular  for  the  T.-C.  R." 

And  so  it  happened  that  they  settled  temporarily  at 
Minnesaba.  Then  began  for  Charlie  Grace  another 
long  period  of  happiness.  Being  domestic  happiness, 
it  had  the  charm  of  novelty.  With  a  home  of  his 
own,  a  wife  of  his  own,  and  a  baby  coming,  he  began 
to  feel  his  value  as  a  citizen,  as  a  man.  He  took  his 

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place  in  the  procession  of  the  human  race.  He  ceased 
to  be,  to  his  own  consciousness,  a  mere  sporadic 
existence,  rootless,  unattached,  irresponsible,  on  the 
waste  of  time.  He  fitted  into  the  scheme  of  things, 
as  descendant,  as  ancestor,  as  recipient  and  trans 
mitter  of  the  great  human  heirlooms.  In  the  offices 
he  frequented,  at  the  Club,  and  in  other  reunions  of 
responsible  men,  he  began  to  feel  the  importance 
that  is  not  self-importance  which  comes  to  younger 
men  on  being  admitted  to  the  council  of  the  elders. 
It  was  so  far  so  good. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IT  was  the  season  of  the  asters,  dahlias,  and  zinnias 
when  Hilda  came  to  Minnesaba.  They  ran  in  two 
straight  flaming  lines,  on  either  side  of  the  lawn, 
down  the  whole  slope  of  the  hill  on  which  the  house 
was  perched,  till  they  seemed  to  run  into  the  cold, 
flashing  waters  of  Lake  Superior.  Ii}  the  coppice  at 
the  back  of  the  house  the  thimbleberry  was  ripe,  and 
here  and  there  a  maple  leaf  was  as  red  as  a  poinsettia. 

It  seemed  to  her  husband  that  she  came  there  with 
a  touching  sense  of  relief.  It  was  not  that  she  was 
physically  tired  so  much  as  that  she  was  emotionally 
craving  for  a  home.  It  was  the  first  time  since  her 
childhood  that  she  had  had  one.  The  domestic  was 
to  her  even  more  a  novelty  than  to  him.  She  took 
delight  in  everything,  from  engaging  servants  to 
ordering  the  meals  and  rearranging  the  furniture. 
When  there  was  nothing  else  to  do  she  would  sit  for 
hours  on  the  veranda  facing  the  lake,  idle,  contented, 
contemplative,  with  the  rapt  look  of  one  who  is 
listening  to  the  Magnificat  anima  mea  Dominum 
singing  itself  in  her  heart. 

It  was  her  first  experience  of  American  life  outside 
of  New  York,  and  she  enjoyed  it.  She  enjoyed  the 
neighborliness,  the  friendliness,  the  kindly  care  for 
her  in  the  somewhat  lonely  position,  that  seemed  to 
come  spontaneously  out  of  the  hearts  of  a  com 
munity.  She  grew  speedily  to  understand  that  there 

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were  at  least  a  dozen  good  motherly  women  yearning 
over  her  as  if  she  were  a  daughter,  and  she  liked  it. 
After  the  well-meaning  frigidities  of  European  life 
it  was  an  odd  sensation,  this  of  being  the  object  of  a 
sort  of  communal  kindness  not  afraid  of  being 
demonstrative.  She  could  lie  back  on  it,  rest  on  it, 
smile  in  its  eyes,  and  sometimes  cry  on  its  bosom. 
She  loved  the  people;  she  loved  the  place;  and  she 
loved  the  house  at  the  head  of  the  green  lawn  above 
the  lake;  she  loved  the  lake  itself — cold,  silvery, 
virginal — over  whose  waters  she  could  still  see  com 
ing  ghostly  the  canoes  of  Pere  Marquette  and  Jean 
Greysolon  du  Luth. 

The  brief  northern  summer  passed  into  the  glorious 
northern  autumn,  and  autumn  became  November. 
Mists  came  up  from  the  lake,  shrouding  the  spires 
and  grain-elevators  and  high  office-buildings  of  the 
town,  while  on  the  bare  crest  of  hills  at  the  back  of 
the  city  there  was  sometimes  a  little  snow.  Hilda 
began  to  live  indoors.  Charlie  Grace  found  himself 
wishing,  perhaps  with  a  touch  of  impatience,  that 
"the  whole  business  was  over."  It  was  a  distinct 
break  in  the  monotony  when  an  offer  for  certain 
properties  held  by  Osborne  and  himself  in  the  iron 
districts  of  the  Mesaba  Range  called  him  to  New 
York.  Fortunately,  Hilda  was  cheerful  and  well,  and 
she  already  numbered  so  many  women  friends  in 
Minnesaba  that  he  could  safely  leave  her  with  them 
for  a  week  or  two.  Besides,  it  would  be  good  policy 
for  him  to  appear  occasionally  in  New  York,  so  that 
his  claims  as  Mr.  Purvis's  adjutant  or  successor 
should  not  be  overlooked.  Since  he  had  disabled 
Ellis,  who,  with  Sir  William  Short's  backing,  seemed 
at  one  time  likely  to  get  the  place,  he  had  little  fear 

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of  rivalry;    but  it  did  no  harm  to  show  himself  as 
often  as  possible  in  lower  Broadway. 

His  reasoning  was  so  sensible,  and  a  trip  of  the  kind 
so  much  a  matter  of  course,  that  he  was  astounded 
to  see  Hilda  overcome  by  dismay  at  the  mention  of 
his  going.  He  had  come  into  her  room  on  his  return 
in  the  evening  for  dinner.  She  had  already  dressed, 
in  a  loosely  fitting  robe  like  a  tea-gown,  and  was 
lying  down.  He  told  her  what  he  meant  to  do, 
immediately  after  he  had  kissed  her. 

She  raised  herself  suddenly,  with  a  look  of  terror. 
"You're  going  away — like  that?" 

"Only  for  ten  days,  darling — or  a  fortnight  at 
longest." 

"A  fortnight? — a  whole  fortnight?" 

"Or  ten  days,  darling — perhaps  not  more  than  a 
week." 

"And  I'm  to  be  left  here?" 

"I  don't  see  what  else  we  can  do,  dearest.  Since 
you  can't  travel — " 

She  rose  to  a  sitting  posture,  her  feet  on  the  rug 
beside  her  couch.  "Since  I  can't  travel — I  can  be 
left  anywhere.  I  suppose  that's  it.  It's  very  con 
venient,  isn't  it? — for  you." 

He  backed  away  from  the  couch  and  sat  down. 
"It  isn't  convenient  for  me,  Hilda,  but  there  are 
times  when  we  have  to  accept  inconveniences — and 
put  up  with  them." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily.  "Charlie,  you  can't 
go.  Don't  you  see  you  can't  go?" 

"But  I  must  go.  Osborne  is  counting  on  me.  It 
means  money — a  great  deal  of  money — " 

"And  I  mean  more  than  money — or  at  least  I  sup 
pose  I  do.  Perhaps  in  that,  however,  I'm  mistaken — 

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"Don't  be  foolish,  darling.  Can't  you  see?  I'm 
not  going  for  long.  I'm  obliged  to  go  away  some 
times.  With  our  big  interests  all  over  the  coun- 
try-" 

She  rose  and  walked  across  the  room.  "Very 
well,  Charlie.  If  you  go  I  must  go,  too." 

"But  how  can  you  go — this  time?" 

"I  shall  manage  it.  I  shall  manage  it  perfectly 
well." 

He,  too,  got  up,  and  walked  the  length  of  the 
room.  "In  that  case,  come.  I  shall  be  only  too 
glad  to  have  you  with  me.  I  only  supposed  that  in 
your  present  condition — 

She  could  only  repeat:  "If  you  go  I  must  go. 
There's  no  more  to  be  said." 

"Oh,  very  well,  then.  The  thing  is  settled  so  far 
as  I'm  concerned.  You're  coming  with  me;  and 
I'm — I'm  delighted.  I  think  that  now  I  had  better 
go  and  dress." 

During  dinner  she  sat  with  eyelids  dropped  and 
the  frozen  manner  that  reminded  him  of  the  years  of 
their  early  acquaintance.  He  had  again  the  sensa 
tion,  from  which  he  had  been  free  of  late,  of  her 
withdrawal  into  remote  regions,  leaving  him  to  feel 
guilty,  brutal.  It  was  only  when  they  were  alone 
at  the  end  of  the  meal  that  he  ventured  to  say: 

"I  think  we  had  better  go  by  the  night  train  to 
Chicago  on  Wednesday  next.  You  could  probably 
take  one  of  the  maids  with  you — the  one  who  looks 
after  you  up-stairs." 

She  made  no  response,  nor  did  she  look  up  at  him. 
From  his  place  across  the  table  he  watched  her 
furtively.  He  noticed  without  sympathy  now  that 
which  he  had  hitherto  observed  with  tenderness,  that 

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her  state  of  health  had  turned  her  clear  ivory  color 
into  sallowness,  and  that  her  features  were  pinched 
and  worn.  It  was  as  if  he  had  emerged  suddenly 
out  of  a  golden  mist  to  see  her  in  the  light  of  a  vivid, 
pitiless  sun. 

Later  in  the  evening,  as  he  sat  smoking  and  read 
ing  the  papers  in  Osborne's  special  snuggery,  she 
came  and  knelt  by  the  arm  of  his  chair,  laying  her 
cheek  against  his  sleeve.  He  continued  to  follow 
with  his  eyes  the  lines  of  the  paper  he  held  up  be 
fore  him,  though  he  understood  nothing  of  what  he 
read.  Presently  he  heard  a  little  smothered  sob. 
Dropping  the  paper,  he  slipped  his  arm  about  her. 

"What  is  it,  darling?     What's  the  matter?" 

"Charlie,  I'm  not  going.  I  don't  want  to  go.  I 
want  you  to  forgive  me." 

"But  why  should  I  forgive  you,  darling?  What 
harm  is  there  in  wishing  to  come,  so  long  as  you  can 
travel?  I  supposed  you  couldn't  travel;  and  that's 
the  only  reason  I  thought  of  going  without  you." 

She  dried  her  eyes,  but  continued  to  speak  broken 
ly.  "There's  nothing  to  keep  me  from  traveling  as 
yet;  but  that's  not  the  point.  It  isn't  that  I  want 
to  go  to  New  York.  I  abhor  New  York.  I 
should  be  glad  if  I  never  had  to  see  the  city  again. 
I'm  never  happy  there.  But  it  isn't  even  that. 
It's —  I  hardly  know  how  to  tell  you.  You'll 
laugh  at  me — and  you'll  be  offended  at  the  same 
time.  But,  Charlie,  dear,  it  terrifies  me  to  have 
you  out  of  my  sight." 

He  laughed,  and  pressed  her  more  closely.  "But 
since  I  have  to  be  out  of  your  sight  at  times  wouldn't 
it  be  well—?" 

"To  get  myself  accustomed  to  it.  Yes;  I  know. 
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That's  what  I  mean  to  try  to  do.  I  will  trust  you, 
Charlie;  I  will." 

His  arm  relaxed  its  pressure.  "Oh,  so  that's  it?" 
Then,  after  a  pause,  he  added:  "Well,  you'd  better 
come." 

She  withdrew  herself  slightly,  lifting  a  tearful, 
expostulating  face  to  his.  "But  why  should  you 
say  that,  when  my  object  now  is  not  to  come?  I 
want  you  to  see — 

"That  you  put  me  on  my  honor.  Thanks.  But 
perhaps  you  can  understand  that  one  resents  being 
put  on  one's  honor  before  one's  been  off  it,  so  to 
speak." 

"I  do  understand  that;  and  it's  why  I'm  ask 
ing  you  to  forgive  me.  I'm  only  too  eager  to  feel 
that  there  isn't  a  cloud  of  suspicion  between 

» 

US. 

"Then  the  easiest  way  to  feel  that  is  to  come  and 
see  for  yourself.  Besides,  since  you  can  come,  don't 
you  know  it's  far  pleasanter  for  me  to  have  you  with 
me?  Since  you  can  come,  I  insist  on  your  coming. 
In  fact,  I  shouldn't  think  of  going  without 
you." 

And  so,  after  more  persuasion  and  final  recon 
ciliation,  Hilda  went  to  New  York.  In  making  her 
preparations  she  alternated  between  joy  that  he 
should  insist  on  her  company  and  shame  at  having 
forced  herself  upon  him.  There  were  times  when 
the  latter  feeling  was  in  the  ascendant,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  do  the  work  of  convincing  her  all  over 
again.  Because  the  question  when  once  raised  could 
only,  with  credit  to  himself,  be  settled  in  one  way, 
he  set  himself  to  the  task  with  greater  patience  and 
determination.  The  consciousness,  too,  that  if  she 
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suspected  him  he  was  not  above  suspicion  was  an 
element  in  his  zeal.  It  was  as  much  to  persuade 
himself  of  his  entire  devotion  as  to  persuade  her 
that  he  allowed  no  deflection  from  the  decision  at 
which  they  had  arrived. 

As,  in  New  York,  Hilda  was  obliged  to  spend  most 
of  her  time  in  her  rooms  at  the  hotel,  Charlie  Grace 
was  conscientious  in  returning  to  her  as  soon  as  his 
duties  permitted  him.  He  went  to  no  theaters,  and 
except  for  lunching  at  the  down-town  clubs,  declined 
all  outings  with  friends.  He  did  this  in  the  hope 
that  if  Hilda  saw  there  was  nothing  sinister  in  his 
life  she  would  be  more  at  ease  with  regard  to  him 
another  time.  That,  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts,  she 
was  not  wholly  at  ease  with  regard  to  him  now  he 
could  see  by  all  sorts  of  trifles — glances,  intonations, 
sentences  begun  and  either  suppressed  or  diverted — 
by  which  she  betrayed  herself.  He  began  to  fear 
that  in  a  man  like  him  for  a  nature  like  hers  there 
would  always  be  something  to  question.  For  this 
he  was  willing  to  take  the  responsibility  on  himself  as 
far  as  he  was  able.  If  he  reproached  her  at  all,  it 
was  only  when  he  caught  glimpses  on  her  part  of 
involuntary,  invincible  distrust  in  moments  when 
he  was  doing  his  utmost. 

In  spite  of  the  assiduity  of  his  marital  attentions 
there  came  a  day  when  Charlie  Grace  found  him 
self  unexpectedly  free.  With  certain  telegrams  he 
had  received  from  Osborne  that  morning  his  business 
was  completed.  He  had  conducted  it  so  skilfully 
that  Osborne  and  he  would  divide  some  seventy  or 
eighty  thousand  dollars  of  profits  between  them. 
It  was  a  day  on  which  to  be  cheerful.  His  impulse 
was  to  go  straight  to  his  wife  and  tell  her  the  pleasing 

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news.  They  could  lunch  together  as  —  except  on 
the  two  Sundays — they  had  not  been  able  to  do 
since  their  arrival,  and  he  could  take  her  to 
drive. 

He  remembered,  however,  that  she  was  to  drive 
with  Mrs.  Meredith,  and  that  afterward  the  three 
Miss  Merediths  were  coming  to  tea.  He  disliked 
the  ladies  Meredith,  and  he  also  disliked  the  tea 
scene  in  a  tiny  hotel  sitting-room.  It  was  too  much 
like  tea  in  a  cabin  on  board  ship. 

It  seemed  obviously  permissible,  therefore,  to  go 
and  lunch  at  the  Blitz,  treating  himself  handsomely 
and  indulging  in  pleasant  thoughts.  He  liked  eat 
ing  in  restaurants,  whether  alone  or  in  company. 
He  liked  this  exercise  especially  in  New  York,  where 
the  surroundings  added  a  cheerful  glitter  to  good 
food,  stirring  the  imagination,  and  sometimes  titil 
lating  the  lower  senses,  with  their  well-bred  promis 
cuities.  Holding  himself  superior  to  none  of  these 
forms  of  appeal,  he  avoided  the  comparative  gray- 
ness  of  the  men's  cafe,  and  took  his  seat  in  the  gay 
saloon  he  had  last  entered  in  the  society  of  Miss 
Legrand. 

Perhaps  his  thoughts  occupied  themselves  first 
with  Hattie  Bright.  They  often  did  so.  When 
there  was  nothing  else  to  do,  it  interested  him  to 
follow  the  possible  divagations  of  a  career  that  had 
led  from  the  shabby  boarding-house  to  the  luxury 
of  the  Blitz.  The  fact  that  he  had  never  met  her 
from  the  evening  when  she  had  confessed  that  there 
was  nothing  in  the  house  to  eat  to  that  when  he  saw 
her  richly  dressed  and  wearing  diamonds  added 
piquancy  to  his  speculations.  He  recalled  with  a 
smile  his  efforts  to  raise  five  hundred  dollars  on  her 

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behalf,  and  his  bitterness  over  his  failure.  He  had 
not  outlived  that  bitterness  yet.  Enough  of  his 
early  training  still  lingered  with  him  to  recall  the 
words:  "If  any  man  love  not  his  brother  whom  he 
hath  seen,  how  can  he  love  God  whom  he  hath  not 
seen?"  He  recalled  them  now,  with  one  of  his 
periodical  outbursts  of  scorn  for  the  people  of  old 
St.  David's,  who  could  meet  Sunday  by  Sunday  to 
sing  their  praises,  and  yet  leave  one  of  their  own 
number  to  starve,  and  her  daughter  to  go  to  the 
devil.  It  was  a  savage  satisfaction  to  think  that  if 
she  had  gone  to  the  devil,  at  least  she  had  gone  clad 
in  velvets,  with  jewels  on  her  breast.  One  of  these 
days,  he  said  to  himself,  he  should  look  her  up.  Since 
he  was  not  sufficiently  without  sin  to  cast  a  stone 
at  her,  it  would  be  nothing  but  the  part  of  loyalty 
to  an  old  friend  to  make  some  sign  of  life.  Hilda 
wouldn't  like  it  if  she  knew — but  then  it  wasn't 
necessary  that  she  should  know. 

There  were  already  some  things  as  to  which  he 
had  not  taken  Hilda  into  his  confidence,  and  among 
them  was  the  possible  memorial  to  his  father  in  the 
shape  of  a  St.  David's  parish-house.  He  had  kept 
silent  about  it,  not  because  he  had  abandoned  the 
intention,  but  because  he  feared  she  would  associate 
the  idea  with  Esther  Legrand.  He  himself  did  not, 
at  least  he  assured  himself  that  he  did  not.  It 
must  be  evident  to  any  one  that  Esther  Legrand 
might  marry,  or  that  her  father  might  resign  St. 
David's  and  go  elsewhere,  long  before  the  plan  for 
this  memorial  could  take  shape.  What  he  was 
looking  for  was  something  that  could  effectively 
and  appropriately  commemorate  his  father's  name; 
and  if  Esther  Legrand  had  some  remote  and  en- 

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tirely  non-essential  connection  with  it  he  couldn't 
help  it.  Hilda  would  think,  however,  that  he  could 
help  it;  and  so  he  had  not  been  impelled  to  make 
her  his  confidante. 

Since  she  was  not  his  confidante,  he  reasoned,  the 
present  afternoon,  when  she  was  pleasantly  occupied 
with  her  friends,  might  be  as  good  an  opportunity 
as  any  for  him  to  look  over  the  ground.  He  said  to 
look  over  the  ground,  because  he  meant  it.  He 
wanted  to  see  by  actual  measurement,  in  a  general 
way,  what  space  there  was  in  the  plot  on  which  St. 
David's  and  its  rectory  stood  for  an  additional 
building.  His  meeting  with  Esther  Legrand  was, 
therefore,  incidental,  even  accidental,  to  this  legiti 
mate  design. 

Remnant  not  being  on  the  spot,  and  neither  Mr. 
nor  Mrs.  Legrand  at  home,  he  strolled  about  at  his 
ease.  For  what  he  had  in  mind  he  saw  that  the 
only  site  was  on  that  part  of  the  grass-plot  between 
the  chancel  and  the  drawing-room  end  of  the  rec 
tory.  This  would  necessitate  the  demolition,  or 
inclusion,  of  the  old  schoolroom  —  a  small  Gothic 
brown-stone  building,  consisting  of  one  good-sized 
room  and  a  loft.  It  was  possible  that  the  accommo 
dations  it  afforded  might  be  utilized  in  the  new 
construction.  He  slipped  inside  to  see. 

He  had  already  heard  the  sound  of  children's 
voices,  so  that  on  entering  he  found  the  sort  of  scene 
he  had  expected.  In  the  gathering  dimness  of  the 
November  afternoon  some  fifteen  or  twenty  little 
girls,  swarthy,  black-eyed  elfins  for  the  most  part, 
were  seated  round  a  table  on  which  stood  a  basket 
containing  the  usual  accessories  for  sewing.  With 
little  heads  bent  sagely  they  worked  at  what  might 

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have  been  handkerchiefs,  or  dusters,  or  pinafores. 
Two  or  three  of  the  older  ones  were  in  a  group  by 
themselves.  From  a  remote  resemblance  of  the  arti 
cles  taking  shape  under  their  fingers  to  human  legs 
and  arms,  they  appeared  to  be  modeling  some  ele 
mentary  form  of  garment — probably  for  the  use  of 
children  too  young  to  object  to  what  was  given  them 
to  wear.  Throughout  the  room  there  was  a  steady 
babble  of  talk. 

The  children  were  gathered  at  the  farther  and 
lighter  end  of  the  room.  Charlie  Grace,  whose  en 
trance  had  been  unnoticed,  slipped  into  a  dim  cor 
ner  and  sat  down.  He  felt  himself  smiling  as  he 
watched  Esther  Legrand  flitting  from  group  to 
group,  examining,  criticizing,  correcting,  approving, 
like  the  patron  of  an  atelier.  Now  and  then  she  took 
a  hand  at  a  seam  or  a  hem  herself  to  show  how  it 
should  be  done.  All  sorts  of  observations  greeted 
her  as  she  passed  along. 

"Teacher,  do  you  like  apples?" 
"Teacher,  what  makes  your  hair  so  red?" 
"Teacher,  did  your  grandmother  fight  in  the  Civil 
War?" 

"Teacher,  your  cheeks  is  just  like  roses." 
"Teacher,  I  give  my  school-teacher  a  flower,  and 
the  next  week  she  slapped  me." 

"Teacher,  I  like  you  for  a  teacher." 
"Teacher,  my  momma  says  if  our  house  burns 
down  I'll  get  a  new  dress." 

The  twilight  deepened,  and  the  moment  for  dis 
persion  came.  Esther  seated  herself  at  the  shrill 
rattle-trap  of  a  piano,  which  had  accompanied 
Charlie  Grace  himself  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  they 
sang  a  hymn. 

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Now  the  day  is  over, 

Night  is  drawing  nigh, 
Shadows  of  the  evening 

Steal  across  the  sky. 

He  couldn't  help  humming  a  bass  to  Esther  Le- 
grand's  fine  mezzo,  which  was  the  richer  for  the 
harsh,  energetic  shrilling  of  the  little  girls. 

The  hymn  ended,  and  a  few  words  of  counsel 
spoken  as  to  the  necessity  of  going  directly  home, 
the  children  filed  away.  "G'by,  Miss  Legran'!" 
"G'by,  Miss  Legran'!"  "G'by,  teacher."  "G' 
by,  Miss  Legra-an'!"  They  came  chattering  down 
the  room,  to  fall  silent  as  they  caught  sight  of  him, 
and  stare  with  big,  black,  solemn  eyes.  It  was 
doubtless  the  pause  in  their  chatter  that  drew 
Esther's  glance  toward  him. 

She  came  to  him  at  once.  "Why,  Mr.  Grace! 
How  lovely!" 

She  wore  a  dress  of  some  dark  stuff,  partially  cov 
ered  by  a  pinafore,  of  which  the  upper  section  was 
pinned  against  the  breast.  In  the  free  grace  of  her 
movements  he  thought  again  of  collies  bounding  on 
the  grass.  More  deliberately  than  at  any  of  their 
previous  meetings  he  noted  the  shapeliness  of  her 
head,  its  poise,  its  pride.  He  contrasted,  too,  her 
easy  absence  of  self-consciousness  with  Hilda's  tense 
repose.  He  compared  them  as  one  compares  an 
emerald  with  a  pearl — only  to  get  the  beautiful  dis 
tinctions  between  them. 

"I'm  so  sorry  father  and  mother  are  out,"  she 
went  on,  without  embarrassment.  "They'll  be 
sorry,  too.  Father  is  out  of  town;  but  mother  will 
be  home  soon,  if  you  could  come  in.  We  had  no 

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idea  you  were  in  New  York.     Is  Mrs.  Grace  with 
you?     We  should  so  like  to  see  her." 

He  explained  that  they  were  in  the  city  for  a  few 
days  only,  on  business,  but  that  they  were  going 
away  at  once.  "So  this  is  one  of  the  famous  sewing- 
classes,"  he  added,  turning  the  conversation  on  her 
self.  "Do  you  do  this  sort  of  thing  all  the  time?" 

"This  sort  of  thing  or  some  other  sort  of  thing. 
I  get  lots  of  variety." 

"Like  the  variety  of  tunes  on  the  bagpipes.  The 
tunes  are  different — but  it's  always  the  bagpipes." 

"And  the  bagpipes  are  beautiful — to  a  Scotchman. 
He  doesn't  need  any  other  kind  of  music.  All  you 
require  is  the  taste." 

"Which  I  understood  you  to  say  you  hadn't  got." 

"Oh  no,  you  didn't;  at  least  if  you  did  you  followed 
me  very  inattentively.  I  said  I  mightn't  have  the 
taste  by  nature,  but  that  I'd  had  plenty  of  oppor 
tunity  to  acquire  it — or  something  like  that.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  our  most  refined  tastes  are  generally 
those  we've  cultivated.  Isn't  that  true?" 

His  eye  roved  over  the  familiar  room.  "So  you 
haven't  yet  got  your  new  parish-house." 

"No;  but  I  think  we're  going  to  have  a  new 
sewing-machine.  You  can't  imagine  what  that's 
going  to  mean  to  us — if  we  get  it.  If  Miss  Smedley 
buys  a  new  one  for  herself  she'll  give  us  the  old  one. 
The  big  girls  are  wild  to  learn  to  work  it,  and  of 
course  they  ought  to.  They  get  better  places  with 
a  little  experience  of  that  kind.  Mother  would 
let  us  use  hers — only  of  course  the  girls  would  be 
hard  on  it,  so  I  don't  like  to  ask  her.  I'm  so  excited 
over  the  sewing-machine  that  I  can't  think  about  a 
parish-house." 

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"As  much  excited  as  over  'Faust?*' 

"W-well,  I  could  hardly  say  that.  Wasn't  it 
lovely!  And  what  do  you  think?  I've  been  to  the 
opera  again." 

"What,  again?     Isn't  that  rather  going  the  pace?" 

She  nodded,  making  an  affirmative  sound  that 
might  be  transcribed  as:  "M'h!  m'h!  Only  the 
other  day.  My  cousin — my  very,  very  distant 
cousin— Mrs.  Peter  Legrand  asked  me.  I  dined 
with  them,  too.  She'd  seen  us  the  night  we  went 
with  you.  She  didn't  know  me,  but  she  recognized 
mother.  Perhaps  that  reminded  her  to  ask  me. 
But  I  rather  think  it  must  have  been  Mr.Coningsby." 

"Mr.— who?" 

He  tried  to  detect  some  trace  of  self-consciousness 
in  her  manner,  but  she  answered  frankly:  "He's 
the  young  architect  who's  been  doing  the  repairs 
on  the  church.  Didn't  you  know  we'd  had  the 
church  done  over  this  summer?  Well,  we  had.  It 
needed  it  very  badly.  So  Mr.  Coningsby  used  to 
come  in  sometimes  to  lunch.  He's  a  friend  of  the 
Peter  Legrands." 

"And  the  Rufus  Legrands,"  Charlie  Grace  said, 
dryly. 

"Oh,  hardly  that;  but  he's  very  nice.  Won't 
you  really  come  in  and  have  tea?  Mother  must 
be  home  quite  soon  now." 

He  excused  himself,  however,  and  said  good-by. 
As  he  walked  up  Vandiver  Place  he  recognized  the 
plump  figure  picking  its  way  rather  heavily  among 
the  bales  and  packing-cases,  and  dodging  the  groups 
of  swarthy  girls  pouring  out  of  Blum  &  Rosenbaum's 
emporium  for  artificial  flowers.  He  thought  again 
of  the  slim,  lithe  figure  of  his  childhood,  with  its 

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spun-sugar  chignon  and  Grecian  bend.  He  won 
dered  if  the  year  1930,  or  thereabouts,  would  see 
Esther  lumbering  laboriously- — disappointed,  poor — 
as  Mrs.  Coningsby.  The  vision  displeased  him; 
though,  as  he  was  careful  to  remind  himself,  it  was 
no  concern  of  his. 

Mrs.  Legrand's  greeting  was  distant  without 
being  absolutely  cold.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  in 
her  eyes  his  value  had  gone  down.  Beneath  the 
usual  questions  concerning  his  stay  in  New  York 
and  his  wife's  health  he  could  almost  read  a  dis 
approving  inquiry  as  to  why  he  should  be  hanging 
about  Vandiver  Place.  He  thought  it  well  to  ex 
plain  that  he  had  come  with  a  view  to  discussing 
with  Mr.  Legrand  the  possibility  of  a  parish-house  in 
memory  of  his,  Charlie  Grace's,  father. 

Mrs.  Legrand  showed  no  more  enthusiasm  than 
he  had  expected.  Perhaps  she  showed  a  little  less. 
She  looked  up  and  down  the  street  before  respond 
ing. 

"I  hope  it  won't  mean  more  work  for  Esther,"  she 
said,  a  little  querulously.  "She's  doing  too  much 
now— with  her  social  duties  as  well.  She's  going 
out  a  great  deal  at  present— with  our  cousin,  Mrs. 
Peter  Legrand.  The  opera  has  got  to  be  quite  an 
old  story.  She  was  with  them  in  their  box  the  other 
night.  Then,  with  dining  out  so  much—  Well, 
you  can  see  I  don't  want  her  to  get  taken  up  with 
mere  slum  work  any  more  than  I  can  help." 

Expressing  his  sympathy  with  this  point  of  view, 
Charlie  Grace  took  his  leave,  and  was  about  to  pass 
on  when  the  lady,  apparently  struck  with  a  new 
idea,  detained  him. 

"Of  course,  if  you  should  do  this  thing,  Charlie — 
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such  a  noble  idea! — I  wish  you'd  think  of  a  young 
architect  friend  of  ours,  a  Mr.  Coninsgby.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  he's  Ralph  Coningsby — grandson  of 
the  Ralph  Coningsby — and  you  couldn't  have  much 
better  than  that,  don't  you  know  you  couldn't? 
We've  been  seeing  a  good  deal  of  him  lately — well, 
for  one  reason  or  another.  Mr.  Legrand  is  very 
much  pleased  with  the  work  he's  done  on  the  church, 
so  that  if  a  parish-house  were  to  be  built — 

Promising  to  take  this  recommendation  earnestly 
into  consideration,  Charlie  Grace  continued  on  his 
way  toward  Broadway.  It  was  the  hour  when  the 
great  thoroughfare  was  beginning  to  light  up.  To  a 
young  New-Yorker  whose  years  were  so  largely  spent 
in  exile  the  spectacle  was  ever  new  and  wonderful. 
It  was  inspiriting,  too,  and  exciting.  It  brought 
into  being  a  world  more  mysterious,  more  suggestive, 
than  that  of  daytime — a  world  in  which  at  any 
minute  things  might  happen,  incongruous  with  the 
placid  light  of  the  sun.  There  was  no  time  at  which 
Charlie  Grace  more  thoroughly  enjoyed  a  stroll 
through  the  two  or  three  streets  that  made  up  all 
that  was  important  to  him  in  his  native  town. 

Those  were  the  early  days  of  the  electric  aerial 
advertisement.  For  Charlie  Grace  it  was  still  so 
novel  that  as  he  walked  northward  his  eye  was 
caught  by  one  flaming  word  that  seemed  to  be 
written  like  a  portent  in  the  sky.  It  was  RINGER. 
It  flared  above  the  tallest  spire,  and  higher  than  any 
of  the  high  buildings  which  at  that  time  were  just 
beginning  to  astound  the  pygmy  sons  of  men.  It  was 
like  an  apt  title  to  a  novel  or  a  play.  It  set  the  mind 
to  speculating  as  to  what  could  lie  behind  the  daring 
laconic  symbol.  For  a  space  of  thirty  seconds  he 

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could  not  have  said,  till  suddenly  it  flashed  on  him 
that  it  meant  sewing-machines. 

As  a  sign  from  heaven  the  beacon  had  the  effect 
aimed  at  by  its  authors.  The  young  man  kept  his 
eye  on  it  till  he  was  close  beneath  the  tower  from 
which  it  shone.  As  there  was  still  a  half-hour  before 
closing-time  he  paused  to  look  in  at  the  window  of  a 
brilliantly  lighted,  red-carpeted  salon,  in  which  sew 
ing-machines  were  disposed  in  all  the  attitudes  and 
angles  that  could  tempt  one  to  sew.  It  was  an  affair 
of  some  ten  minutes  to  enter  and  order  two  of  the 
most  expensive  and  most  thoroughly  equipped  to 
be  sent  to  Miss  Esther  Legrand,  St.  David's  Rectory, 
Vandiver  Place.  The  bill  could  be  handed  in  at  once 
at  the  hotel,  where  it  would  be  duly  paid.  By  this 
expedition  the  gift  could  be  delivered  the  first  thing 
in  the  morning.  Pleased  with  his  promptitude  in 
carrying  out  benevolent  inspiration,  the  young  man 
continued  on  his  way. 

It  was  part  of  his  good  intention  toward  Hilda 
to  be  scrupulous  in  the  account  he  meant  to  give 
her  of  his  day's  doings.  The  very  fact  that  there 
were  details  he  would  have  preferred  keeping  to 
himself  rendered  him  the  more  determined  to  tell 
her  everything.  He  hastened  to  her  at  once  on 
entering  the  hotel. 

Her  guests  having  departed,  she  was  seated  alone 
in  the  embrasure  of  the  rounded  window  of  her 
sitting-room  looking  down  on  the  lights  and  move 
ment  of  Fifth  Avenue  and  Thirty-third  Street. 
Except  for  one  shaded  electric  lamp,  the  room  was 
dim.  He  drew  a  chair  close  to  hers,  taking  her 
hand.  He  began  at  once  on  the  happy  termination 
of  his  errand  to  New  York.  Seeing  she  was  not 

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giving  him  her  close  attention,  he  felt  his  tone  of 
triumph  flag  as  he  went  on.  He  was  doing  his  best 
to  spur  himself  along  when  she  broke  in  suddenly. 

"Charlie,  did  you  know  that  that  Mr.  Ellis — the 
one  Sir  William  Short  wanted  to  send  to  New  York 
— was  living  in  Brooklyn?" 

The  question  astonished  him  so  that  he  could 
hardly  frame  the  answer,  "No."  He  managed  to 
add,  however:  "How  should  I  know  it?" 

"He's  ill — and  poor.     Did  you  know  that?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  haven't  heard  of  him  for 
over  a  year — not  since  he  got  mad  and  threw  up 
his  job  at  Winnipeg." 

Her  next  question  startled  him  still  more.  "What 
was  it  you  did  to  get  him  out  of  your  way?" 

He  was  prompt  in  replying:  "I  did — hardly  any 
thing.  Why  are  you  asking?" 

She  looked  down  at  the  lights  lining  Fifth  Avenue, 
to  where  they  were  lost  in  the  blur  of  Madison 
Square.  "His  wife  turns  out  to  be  a  connection  of 
the  Merediths." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  they  think  he's  been  badly  treated.  He 
thinks  so,  too." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "That's  quite  pos 
sible.  Every  ill  -  tempered,  disgruntled  Johnny 
thinks  himself  badly  treated." 

"He  wasn't  badly  treated  by  you,  Charlie,  was 
he?" 

He  tried  to  smile.  "I  hope  not.  I  didn't  treat 
him  in  any  way — badly  or  otherwise." 

"And  yet  you  did  something  to  him,  because  I 
remember  your  saying — it  was  at  Nice — that  you'd 
got  him  out  of  the  running,  that  he  was  done  for." 

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He  reflected  a  minute.  "I  may  have  said  that. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  done  for." 

"And  you  had  done  for  him?" 

"If  so — and  I  don't  admit  that  it's  so — I  did  for 
him  before  he  did  for  me.  That's  all  there  was  to 
it.  I  didn't  make  him  ill — if  he  is  ill.  I  didn't 
make  him  lose  his  money,  either.  He  had  some.  I 
suppose  he  must  have  speculated  with  it  and  chucked 
it  away.  That's  the  usual  thing." 

She  was  still  looking  down  at  the  lights  of  Fifth 
Avenue  as  she  said:  "Would  you  mind  telling  me, 
Charlie,  just  what  you  did  do?" 

He  pushed  back  his  chair  and  sprang  up.  "Look 
here,"  he  said,  not  indignantly,  but  in  a  tone  of 
animated  argument,  "what's  it  leading  up  to?  Has 
the  old  lady  Meredith  been  putting  ideas  into  your 
head  about  me?" 

"She  never  mentioned  you,  Charlie,  except  to 
say  that,  as  you  had  influence  on  the  Trans-Canadian, 
perhaps  you  could  get  work  for  him  again." 

"Well,  perhaps  I  can — if  he  isn't  too  ill  to  be 
fit  for  it." 

"She  had  no  idea  who  had  stabbed  him  in  the 
back.  No,  don't  be  annoyed,  Charlie!  I'm  not 
saying  that;  it's  what  she  said.  And  because  she 
did  say  it — and  I  knew  you'd  done  something  to 
this  Mr.  Ellis — it's  very  natural  that  I  should  want 
to  be  in  a  position  to  defend  you." 

"Defend  me?    To  whom?    To  old  Mrs.  Meredith  ?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  steady  eyes.  "No; 
to  myself." 

He  took  a  turn  about  the  room,  coming  back  and 
standing  before  her.  "To  yourself.  Does  that 
mean  that  you're  inclined  to — to  attack  me?" 

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"That's  unkind,  Charlie.  Surely  you  must  see 
that  you  puzzle  me — that  you  bewilder  me.  I  love 
you;  I've  married  you;  and  yet  you  seem  to  be 
surrounded  by  a  background  of  shadows,  out  of 
which  anything  might  come.  If  you  wouldn't 
mind  telling  me  what  you  did  to  Mr.  Ellis  you  might 
dispel  them.  Anyhow,  I  should  know." 

"Very  well,  then;  I  will."  He  took  another  turn 
about  the  room,  as  if  to  collect  his  thoughts.  "It 
came  to  my  knowledge,"  he  stated,  returning  to  con 
front  her  again,  "that  Ellis  had  once  been  dismissed 
from  a  position  of  some  responsibility  in  a  bank  in 
one  of  the  secondary  towns  of  the  state  of  New  York. 
He  wasn't  accused  of  anything — publicly,  that  is; 
he  was  simply  suspected  and — dismissed.  After 
that  the  thing  was  hushed  up.  I  mentioned  the 
fact  to  Osborne;  Osborne  mentioned  it  to  Sir  William 
Short,  and  Sir  William  Short  dropped  him.  That's 
the  whole  story.  You  can  see  for  yourself  that  a 
man  who  had  that  flaw  in  his  record  wouldn't  do  for 
the  position  he  wanted." 

With  his  hands  thrust  into  his  trousers  pockets 
he  wheeled  away  from  her.  She  sat  for  a  few  minutes 
deep  in  her  own  thoughts,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor. 
"And  I  suppose,"  she  said,  meditatively,  "that  you 
were  looking  for  a  flaw  in  his  record  when  the  knowl 
edge  came  to  you." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "If  you'd  ever  seen 
much  of  the  men  who  go  to  the  new  countries  you'd 
know  that  the  flaw  in  the  record  is  the  tender 
point." 

"So  that  if  you  want  to  get  rid  of  any  one  it's 
the  spot  at  which  to  strike." 

''That's  about  the  size  of  it,"  he  said,  grimly. 
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"It  is  a  little  like  stabbing,  isn't  it?" 

"Not  in  the  back." 

"Well,  from  the  front,  then — but  stabbing  just 
the  same." 

"It's  what  he  would  have  done  to  me  if  he'd  had 
the  chance." 

"I  don't  see  that  that's  exactly  what  we're  con 
cerned  with.  It's  what  you've  done  to  him — 

"But  good  Lord,  Hilda,  don't  you  see  that  a  man 
who'd  had  that  kind  of  scandal  behind  him — how 
ever  carefully  it  had  been  smothered  up — couldn't 
have  represented  the  Trans-Canadian  in  New 
York?" 

"Oh,  if  your  motive  was  to  safeguard  the  Trans- 
Canadian — 

He  flung  out  his  hands  impatiently.  "My  motive 
was  to  get  ahead  of  him- — to  cut  him  out.  Don't 
let  us  have  any  misunderstanding  about  that.  I 
saw  that  I  had  him  on  the  hip,  and  I  took  him  there. 
I  had  no  scruples  about  it,  because  it  was  the  only 
thing  to  do.  It's  what's  been  done  to  me  a  dozen 
times — and  by  fellows  who've  pretended  to  be  my 
best  friends.  They  were  my  best  friends,  too — only 
friendship  can't  interfere  with  a  thing  of  this  kind. 
It's  you  do  me  or  I  do  you — and  if  you  do  me  first, 
why,  then  I  must  be  a  pretty  poor  loser  if  I  squeal 
about  it.  Ellis  did  squeal — threw  up  his  job — the 
job  in  which  they'd  have  left  him  unmolested  if  he'd 
been  cashiered  from  fifty  banks — so  that  now  I 
suppose  he's  got  what's  coming  to  him." 

"And  you'll  get  what's  coming  to  youy  Charlie, 
won't  you?" 

He  stared  at  her.  "If  by  that  you  mean — New 
York- 

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"Yes;  that's  what  I  do  mean." 

He  laughed  hardly.     "By  George,  I  hope  so." 

"And  I  shall  get  it,  too." 

"Get  it,  too?     Get  it — how?" 

"I  mean  that  I  shall  have  to  share  it — share  the 
results  of  what  you  did  to  Mr.  Ellis." 

"Oh,  come,  Hilda!  You  can't  reason  that  way. 
If  you  did,  where  would  any  of  us  be?  This  is 
nothing — nothing — compared  to  the  things  other 
people  do — to  the  things  I've  done  myself,  if  you  want 
me  to  be  frank.  You've  got  to  take  the  world  as  you 
find  it,  my  dear  old  dad  used  to  say.  Perhaps  that's 
what's  the  matter  with  you — that  you  don't. 
You've  lived  so  long  in  dreams — 

She  smiled  drearily.  "I  begin  to  think  I  have, 
Charlie." 

"Well,  then,  darling,  you'll  find  it  a  very  good 
plan  to  wake  up.  You  can't  live  long  in  dreams  in 
New  York — nor  in  any  other  part  of  the  American 
continent.  I  grant  you  that  it's  one  of  the  most 
idealizing  countries  in  the  world — only  the  minute 
you  attempt  to  put  your  ideals  into  practice  you're 
down  and  out.  You  may  take  that  from  me." 

The  dreary  smile  was  still  on  her  lips  as  she  said, 
"Apparently,  I  must  take  a  good  many  things  from 
you." 

He  thought  it  best  to  ignore  this  thrust  by  going 
into  his  room  to  wash  his  hands.  That  would 
bring  the  conversation  to  an  end.  He  was  rubbing 
his  hands  slowly  on  the  towel,  thinking  of  the  mess 
women  made  of  things  the  minute  they  peered  into 
a  man's  concerns — his  pipes  or  his  boots,  his  business 
matters  or  his  love  affairs — when  he  heard  his  name 
called  sharply.  "Charlie!  Come  here!"  He  hur- 
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ried  to  the  threshold  of  the  sitting-room.  A  bell 
boy  had  entered  and  was  standing  in  the  middle  of 
the  room.  Hilda  was  holding  what  seemed  to  be  a 
telegram  close  to  the  shaded  electric  lamp. 

"What  on  earth  does  this  mean?  'To  Two 
Number  Three  Ringers  supplied  to  Miss  Esther 
Legrand,  St.  David's  Rectory,  Vandiver  Place — 
one  hundred  and  twenty  dollars.'  They  want  to 
know  if  it's  to  be  paid." 

During  the  reading  he  had  time  to  curse  himself 
for  his  carelessness  in  forgetting  to  speak  of  the 
thing  at  the  office  before  he  came  up-stairs.  As  it 
was,  he  could  only  stride  across  the  room,  snatch 
the  paper  from  her  hand,  and  thrust  it  back  upon  the 
boy.  "Yes;  pay  it,"  he  said,  savagely. 

"What  in  the  world  are  Number  Three  Ringers?" 
she  gasped,  before  the  retreating  boy  had  closed  the 
door  behind  him. 

He  tried  to  be  jocular.  "That's  what  I  was  going 
to  tell  you  if  you  hadn't  insisted  on  talking  of  this 
other  business.  They're  sewing-machines." 

"  Sewing-machines  ?" 

"For  the  sewing-classes — lot  of  little  girls.  The 
older  ones  are  wild  to  learn  to  sew  on  the  sewing- 
machines.  They  ought  to  learn,  too.  They  get 
better  places  for  a  little  experience  of  that  kind." 

He  tried  to  repeat  with  as  much  sang-froid  as 
possible  what  he  remembered  Esther  to  have  said. 
Hilda  listened  to  him  with  lips  parted  and  wide-open 
eyes. 

"Since  when  have  you  been  taking  an  interest  in 
sewing-classes  for  little  girls?" 

"Oh,  this  ever  so  long.  It's  what  they  go  in  for 
now  at  old  St.  David's." 


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"You  mean  it's  what  Miss  Legrand  goes  in  for." 
"Oh,  she's  only  one  of  them.  They've  a  lot  of 
women  working  about  the  place — philanthropic 
work,  don't  you  know — moral  uplift  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  Make  them  good  American  cit 
izens." 

"And  you  supply  them  with  sewing-machines?" 
"Well,  there's  no  harm  in  that,  is  there?  I  should 
have  said  it  was  the  very  thing  you  would  have 
approved  of.  You  always  seem  to  think  I'm  not 
doing  enough  good.  Isn't  it  possible  that  I  may  be 
doing  more  than  you  imagined — " 

"Oh,  quite.     I  never  imagined  anything  like  this." 
"Not  that  I  wasn't  going  to  tell  you — 
"Wouldn't  that  have  been  a  pity?     With  such 
generosity  as  yours  it's  surely  better  not  to  let  the 
left  hand  know  what  the  right  hand  is  doing — 

"Now,  now,  Hilda!  W7hy  should  you  make  a 
fuss?  You  can  hardly  say  that  a  sewing-machine — 
even  two  sewing-machines — is  a  very  compromising 

gift." 

She  blazed.  "Compromising?  Who  said — com 
promising?  Is  there  any  reason  why  it  should  have 
been  compromising?" 

"Not  unless  you  see  one,  Hilda." 

She  looked  at  him  long  and  slowly  before  speaking. 
"What  I  do  see  is  this,  Charlie — that  you  terrify 
me.  There's  something  about  you  strange  and — 
mysterious — and — appalling.  I  don't  know  what 
you  mightn't  do — what  you  wouldn't  do — what,  at 
any  minute,  I  sha'n't  learn  that  you  have  done — " 

"If  all  that's  because  I've  given  a  couple  of  sew 
ing-machines  to  a  class  of  little  Italian  girls — " 

She  moved  toward  her  bedroom  door,  putting  out 


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her  hand  with  a  backward  protesting  gesture,  as  she 
fled.     "Oh— don't!" 

She  shut  the  door  behind  her  and  locked  it.  The 
sound  of  the  turning  of  the  key  grated  on  him 
curiously.  It  was  as  if  she  were  locking  herself 
against  him.  He  stood  for  some  minutes  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  rueful,  disconsolate.  The  sense 
of  brutality,  of  guilt,  came  over  him  again.  He  tip 
toed  to  her  door  and  listened.  If  he  heard  her  cry 
ing  he  would  insist  on  being  let  in.  But  she  was 
not  crying.  All  was  painfully  still.  He  went  back 
again  aimlessly  to  the  middle  of  the  room.  Aim 
lessly,  too,  he  took  out  his  cigar-case,  chose  a  cigar, 
and  snipped  off  the  end.  Holding  the  cigar  between 
his  teeth,  he  fumbled  absently  for  his  match-box, 
only  to  stand  with  the  match  in  his  hand,  without 
striking  it.  More  vividly  than  at  any  previous 
moment  it  was  borne  in  on  him  that  Hilda  was  his 
old  self  risen  again.  She  still  held  the  ideals — the 
high,  impractical  ideals — with  which  he  himself  had 
started  out,  only  to  find  them  unsuited  to  American 
conditions,  as  those  conditions  were  when  the  nine 
teenth  century  was  merging  into  the  twentieth. 
He  had  no  objection  to  those  ideals  in  themselves. 
On  the  contrary,  he  would  have  continued  to  hold 
them  had  he  found  other  men  of  affairs  doing  the 
same.  If  he  discarded  them  it  was  only  because 
they  put  him  at  a  disadvantage.  Hilda  seemed  to 
hold  the  astounding  theory  that  one  could  be  put  at 
a  disadvantage  and  make  no  complaint.  It  was  the 
fundamental  error  in  all  her  points  of  view;  and  as 
her  husband  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  convince  her  of 
the  mistake.  With  this  purpose  he  went  boldly  to 
her  door,  lifting  his  hand  to  knock. 

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In  the  end  it  was  a  premonition  of  the  uselessness 
of  any  such  attempt  that  withheld  him.  He  was 
beginning  to  understand  something  of  her  immov 
ability.  It  was  the  tenacity  her  mother  had  warned 
him  about  beforehand,  the  sort  of  thing  with  which 
reason  couldn't  deal.  He  crossed  the  room  again, 
this  time  passing  through  the  door  of  his  own  dress 
ing-room  and  locking  it  behind  him.  He  locked  it 
without  thinking;  but  when  he  did  think,  it  was  to 
make  the  reflection  that  if  his  old  self  was  to  be 
shut  against  him  they  would  be  mutually  shut 
against  each  other. 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHEN  Charlie  Grace  was  next  called  to  New 
York  there  could  be  no  question  as  to  his  going. 
Osborne  and  Emma  had  come  toMinnesaba,  the  latter 
to  visit  Hilda,  the  former  to  discuss  with  his  brother- 
in-law  the  plans  for  the  acquisition  by  the  T.-C.  R. 
of  the  Buffalo  &  New  London  Railway,  which 
would  give  the  Canadian  system  its  long-desired 
outlet  through  New  England.  Though  the  business 
would  be  nominally  managed  by  Mr.  Purvis,  the 
T.-C.  R.  magnates  at  Montreal  would  look  to  Charlie 
Grace,  who  had  already  proved  his  ability  for  mat 
ters  of  the  kind,  to  "put  it  through"  in  the  more 
delicate  details  of  the  operation.  He  was  not  so 
well  known  a  figure  but  that  he  could  come  and  go 
between  the  parties  most  concerned  without  call 
ing  attention  to  himself  either  from  the  press  or 
from  the  representatives  of  rival  lines.  Negotiations 
begun  a  few  years  earlier  through  Ellis  had  dropped 
when  the  latter  fell  into  disfavor.  As  the  matter 
was  becoming  urgent  again,  it  was  necessary  that 
certain  powerful  persons  in  New  York  and  elsewhere 
should  be  sounded  without  delay;  and  there  was 
no  one,  in  the  opinion  of  the  T.-C.  R.,  so  well  fitted 
for  that  task  as  Charlie  Grace. 

"Whole  business  going  to  be  a  long  one,"  Osborne 
explained,  in  Hilda's  presence,  "so  that  as  soon  as 

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your  little  affair  here  is  well  out  of  the  way  you'd 
both  better  pack  up  for  Manhattan." 

Hilda  smiled,  her  old  dreamy  smile,  in  which  there 
was  now  a  shade  that  Charlie  Grace  could  only 
qualify  as  bitter-sweet.  She  said  nothing  till,  Os- 
borne  having  left  the  room,  she  was  alone  with  her 
husband. 

"So  you've  got  it  at  last,"  she  remarked  then,  the 
bitter-sweet  smile  playing  on  him  steadily. 

"Got  what?" 

"What  you  were  working  for — what  Mr.  Ellis 
would  have  had." 

He  turned  with  a  despairing  gesture.  "Oh,  hang 
it,  Hilda,  don't  go  bringing  that  up  all  the  rest  of 
our  lives!" 

"I  don't  bring  it  up,  Charlie.     It's  never  down." 

"What  on  earth  would  you  have  me  do?  Do  you 
want  me  to  tell  Osborne  I  can't  undertake  this 
business — ?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No.  I  don't  see  how  you 
can  do  that  now.  That's  the  irony  of  it,  isn't  it? 
Having  struck  down  a  man  who  was  trying  to  re 
trieve  himself — who  had  retrieved  himself — you're 
obliged  to  profit  by  his  fall." 

"Very  well,  then.  As  there's  no  way  of  going 
back,  why  keep  talking  of  it?" 

"Keep  talking  of  it?  Have  I  mentioned  it  since 
the  one  and  only  time  we  ever  spoke  of  it?  That 
was  in  New  York,  in  November;  and  now  it's 
February.  But  you  needn't  be  afraid,  Charlie. 
I  shall  never  bring  it  up  again." 

"But  you'll  go  on  thinking  of  it." 

"I'll  try  not  even  to  do  that — except  when  I 
can't  help  it." 

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He  would  have  let  the  matter  rest  there  had  he 
not  been  impelled  to  make  his  position  better  by  a 
final  word.  "At  least,  I've  never  deceived  you  as 
to  my  motives  in  life  being  what  you  would  call  sor 
did;  now,  have  I?" 

She  admitted  the  truth  of  this. 

"I've  never  denied  the  fact  that  my  object  was 
to  make  money  by  what  you've  already  said  on  one 
occasion  was  fair  means  or  foul." 

An  inclination  of  the  head  expressed  her  assent 
to  this. 

"And  you  wouldn't  have  married  me  if  it  hadn't 
been  so." 

She  clung  to  the  mantelpiece  of  the  dining-room 
in  which  they  had  been  talking.  "I  wouldn't  have 
married  you  unless  I  had — had  cared  for  you." 

He  seemed  to  square  himself  in  front  of  her. 
"But  you  wouldn't  have  cared  for  me  unless  I'd 
had  the  money.  Now,  would  you?" 

She  colored.  "I — I  don't  know  what  you  mean, 
Charlie.  If  you  want  to  imply  that  I  had  mercenary 
motives — " 

"No,  I  don't,"  he  broke  in,  quickly.  "Your 
motives  were  neither  better  nor  worse  than  those 
of  other  people  in  a  similar  position.  You  cared 
for  me  because  I'm  what  I  am.  And  I'm  what  I  am 
because  I've  got  the  money.  How  I  got  it  is  sec 
ondary  to  you,  as  it's  secondary  to  everybody  else. 
The  world  is  full  of  high-principled,  right-meaning 
people  who  haven't  words  enough  to  express  their 
scorn  of  the  man  who  grows  rich  by  what  they  choose 
to  consider  improper  means,  but  who,  when  it  comes 
to  personal  dealings,  can't  show  him  too  plainly 
how  much  they  respect  him." 

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She  seemed  to  grow  taller.  Her  eyes  blazed. 
"And  you  class  me  in  their  number?" 

"I  don't  put  you  lower,  darling,  than  I  put  the 
whole  order  of  bishops,  priests,  and  deacons,  and  ail 
the  other  idealists  who  are  so  easily  outraged  by  our 
brutal  modern  ways  of  growing  rich.  They're  aw 
fully  fluent  in  words;  but  once  get  rich,  and" — he 
snapped  his  fingers — "you  can  do  what  you  like 
with  them." 

She  still  clung  to  the  mantelpiece,  looking  down 
into  the  fireplace,  where  logs  were  spluttering. 
"You  don't  have  to  tell  me  that  to  show  me  you've 
a  poor  opinion  of  human  nature — " 

"But  I  haven't.  That's  just  it.  I'm  not  blaming 
them.  On  the  contrary,  I  think  their  actions  prove 
them  wiser  than  their  words.  Every  one  is  likely 
to  speak  foolishly;  but  when  he  acts  with  discretion 
he  can  be  pardoned.  I  don't  care  what  any  one 
thinks  of  the  way  in  which  I've  made  my  little  bit 
of  money,  so  long  as  he  respects  me.  I'm  not 
quarreling  with  you,  Hilda,  darling.  Have  your 
own  opinion.  It  doesn't  make  any  difference  to 
me  whatever.  I  merely  ask  you  to  remember  that 
you'd  never  have  looked  at  me  twice  if  I'd  been  the 
noble,  unselfish  creature  who  wants  to  safeguard 
every  one  else's  interests  before  he  considers  his  own 
—and  so  wouldn't  have  had  a  comfortable  home  to 
offer  you.  You  wouldn't  have  looked  at  me  twice. 
That's  not  mercenary.  It's  only  human.  I  admire 
you  for  it  the  more.  Only,  if  I  were  you,  I  should 
try  to  admire  myself — from  precisely  that  point  of 
view." 

As  she  stood  with  one  foot  on  the  fender,  her  fore 
head  bowed  on  the  hand  that  still  clung  to  the  edge 

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of  the  chimney-piece,  he  stooped  and  kissed  her  hair. 
Glancing  over  his  shoulder  on  leaving  the  room,  he 
saw,  not  without  a  pang,  that  she  kept  this  attitude 
of  reverie  or  depression.  He  could  not,  however, 
eat  his  words,  seeing  they  were  true.  He  could  only 
hope  that  a  salutary  truth  might  help  her  in  taking 
a  more  reasonable  view  of  things.  The  subject  was 
not  renewed  between  them,  nor  did  they  recover 
from  some  constraint,  during  the  days  that  inter 
vened  before  his  departure;  but  when  he  actually 
said  good-by  she  hung  about  his  neck  with  the  silent, 
tearless  desperateness  of  a  woman  who  might  have 
been  seeing  her  husband  go  to  exile  or  to  execution. 
Leaving  Emma  to  watch  over  her  sister-in-law  for 
the  three  months  that  remained  of  her  waiting, 
Charlie  Grace  set  out  with  Osborne  for  Montreal. 
From  Montreal — after  the  necessary  interviews  with 
Sir  William  Short  and  other  dignitaries — he  passed 
to  Buffalo,  to  Boston,  to  New  London,  and  finally 
to  New  York.  He  made  his  visits  to  the  secondary 
cities  with  so  much  caution,  and  used  so  much  dis 
cretion  in  seeing  the  representative  citizens  to  whom 
his  errands  were,  that  on  reaching  the  metropolis 
it  was  a  relief  to  go  about  openly  and  do  what  he 
pleased.  He  argued  that  a  thousand  reasons,  or 
no  reason  at  all,  would  take  one  to  New  York, 
whereas  one  would  never  go  to  Buffalo,  Boston,  or 
New  London  unless  one  had  a  motive.  No  one 
would  ever  ask  what  he  was  doing  in  lower  Broad 
way;  while  his  appearance  in  Eagle  Street,  or  Tre- 
mont  Street,  or  on  the  banks  of  the  Connecticut 
Thames  might  start  speculation.  In  New  York  he 
could  therefore  allow  himself  to  relax — to  visit  the 
theaters  and  the  opera,  and  take  part  in  pleasant 

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reunions  in  clubs  and  private  houses.  His  days 
being  feverishly  occupied,  and  his  evenings  dull,  he 
was  glad  of  any  form  of  friendliness  or  entertain 
ment.  For  the  third  time  in  his  life  he  knew  the 
lonely,  yearning  ache  that  goes  by  the  name  of 
homesickness.  He  had  felt  it  first  the  summer 
when  his  mother  died;  it  had  come  again  the  year 
he  left  his  father  to  visit  Winnipeg  and  finally  settle 
at  Forde.  From  that  time  to  this  he  had  been  free 
from  it,  and  had  sometimes  congratulated  himself 
that  the  possibility  of  it  was  past.  But  now,  all  of 
a  sudden,  it  returned — bringing  memories  of  his 
father  and  mother  which  grew  oddly  fused  with 
those  of  Hilda  and  the  house  on  the  hill  above  Su 
perior.  He  began  to  recognize  it  as  one  of  the 
penalties  of  being  married,  of  being  a  householder, 
and  a  prospective  father. 

It  was  the  more  to  his  credit,  then,  that  he  denied 
himself  the  pleasure,  perhaps  the  solace,  which  drew 
his  thoughts  persistently  to  Vandiver  Place.  Not 
that  he  had  any  fear  of  it  for  himself;  he  was  only 
determined  that  if,  on  his  return  to  the  West,  the  name 
of  Esther  Legrand  were  ever  to  come  up,  he  should 
be  in  a  position  to  say  to  Hilda  that  he  hadn't  seen 
the  lady  who  bore  it.  He  was  the  more  resolved 
on  this  because  he  divined  on  Hilda's  part,  and  al 
most  read  between  the  lines  of  her  letters,  the  as 
sumption  that  Miss  Legrand  and  he  were  daily  in 
each  other's  company. 

And  yet  there  was  an  occasion  when  these  good 
intentions  came  to  naught.  It  was  a  wild,  wet  after 
noon  at  the  end  of  February — an  afternoon  on  which, 
having  nothing  to  do,  he  was  dull,  depressed,  and 
bored.  It  was  one  of  those  moments  in  which  even 

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the  city-loving  soul  finds  the  resources  of  a  capital 
but  vanity.  Moreover,  he  was  worried,  tired,  and 
not  well.  The  thought  of  his  old  rectory  home  was 
positively  comforting;  and  if  within  it  he  found  a 
bright,  cheery  face,  more  lovely  than  any  face  he 
knew — except  Hilda's,  he  said  to  himself  loyally — 
well,  hang  it  all!  it  could  only  do  him  the  more 
good. 

Twilight  was  already  closing  in  as  he  drew 
near  St.  David's.  The  door  being  open,  with  its 
customary  welcome,  he  went  in.  Life  for  the 
minute  seemed  so  hollow  that  he  would  have  en 
joyed  a  few  words  with  Remnant;  but  Remnant 
was  not  to  be  found.  Amiens  Cathedral  was  empty, 
and  except  for  a  solitary  gas-jet  beside  the  organ,  on 
the  right-hand  side  of  the  chancel,  it  was  dim.  The 
wind  soughed  through  the  old  choir-loft,  and  along 
the  vaulting  of  the  aisles,  while  the  rain  rattled 
against  the  elongated  stained  -  glass  lights,  now  all 
but  colorless. 

With  an  eery  feeling  he  was  about  to  withdraw, 
in  order  to  approach  the  rectory  by  the  usual  way, 
when  a  deep  pedal  note  on  the  organ  startled  him. 
The  note  was  followed  by  a  prelude;  the  prelude  by 
a  voice.  He  slipped  into  the  nearest  pew,  and  sat 
down. 

Oh,  rest  in  the  Lord;  wait  patiently  for  Him;  and  He 
shall  give  thee  thy  heart's  desire.  Submit  thy  way  unto 
Him;  and  trust  in  Him.  Oh,  rest  in  the  Lord;  wait 
patiently  for  Him. 

He  had  only  once  before  heard  Esther  sing — in  the 
simple  melody  of  a  hymn — so  that  he  was  not  pre 
pared  for  this  full  richness  of  voice,  with  its  unaffected 

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sympathy.  And  yet,  he  reasoned,  it  was  just  in  this 
way  she  ought  to  sing — spontaneously,  without 
effort,  in  the  dim  solitude  of  a  church,  alone,  without 
listeners,  giving  out  the  sweet  holiness  of  her  nature 
as  unconsciously  as  a  flower  sheds  fragrance  on  the 
night. 

There  was  a  turning  of  leaves,  and  presently  she 
began  again. 

How  beautiful  are  the  feet  of  them  that  preach  the 
gospel  of  peace,  that  bring  glad  tidings,  glad  tidings  of 
good  things. 

Again  it  was: 

He  was  despised — despised  and  rejected — a  man  of 
Sorrows,  and  acquainted  with  grief.  He  hid  not  his 
face  from  shame — from  shame  and  spitting — a  man  of 
Sorrows,  and  acquainted  with  grief. 

For  a  half-hour  she  sang,  always  from  the  old 
familiar  oratorios  which  seemed  to  be  the  natural 
speech  of  her  simple,  moving  sincerity. 

Charlie  Grace  felt  himself  deeply  stirred,  not  by  the 
words,  nor  by  the  music,  nor  yet  by  Esther  Legrand, 
so  much  as  by  this  quality  of  noble  utterance.  It 
was  thus  that  Hilda  should  have  sung.  It  was  the 
voice  to  go  with  her  face,  her  eyes,  her  personality. 
If  her  locked  soul  could  only  open  itself  outward 
it  would  doubtless  be  in  some  such  way  as  this  that 
it  would  want  to  find  expression.  He  dwelt  on  the 
words:  her  locked  soul.  It  was  the  first  time  they 
had  come  to  him.  But  since  they  had  come,  he 
could  see  he  had  found  the  phrase  he  had  been  in 
search  of.  That  was  surely  the  difference  between 

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these  two  natures — the  one  open  and  sunlit,  the 
other  sacred  and  sealed.  It  was  sacred  and  sealed 
even  to  him.  There  had  been  a  time  when  he  had 
dreamed  of  the  privilege  of  forcing  his  way  into  it, 
when  he  had  fancied  that  one  day  the  invisible  bolts 
would  be  drawn,  and  he  should  be  invited  to  enter 
its  holy  solitudes.  But  the  day  had  not  come  yet, 
and  he  was  beginning  to  doubt  that  it  ever  would 
come.  There  was  a  degree  to  which  Hilda  could 
transcend  the  mental  or  spiritual  spaces  that  some 
how  lay  between  them,  and  come  into  his  life;  but 
she  could  never  admit  him  into  hers.  That  was 
barred  against  him,  as  it  had  been  barred  against 
her  mother  and  every  one  else,  as  far  as  he  knew,  who 
had  ever  approached  her.  In  the  more  superficial 
aspects  of  life,  her  manner,  her  dress,  her  voice,  her 
choice  of  words,  her  way  of  receiving  guests,  her 
dignity  even  with  himself,  she  charmed  him  to  the 
point  of  reverence.  He  had  never  known  any  one 
to  whom  the  word  lady  could  so  fittingly  be  applied. 
But  when  it  came  to  things  more  intimate  there  was 
a  lack  of  point  of  contact.  His  ideals  were  alien  to 
her;  and  as  for  hers,  she  had  not  as  yet  given  him 
her  confidence.  With  regard  to  so  simple  a  thing  as 
the  kind  of  life  they  were  to  lead  on  settling  into  a 
home  of  their  own  she  had  no  outbursts  of  expan- 
siveness.  She  listened  to  him;  she  smiled  dreamily; 
but  she  let  the  matter  drop.  After  nearly  a  year  of 
married  life  he  was  still  ignorant  of  her  preferences. 
He  could  only  ascribe  to  her  the  tastes  other  women 
had,  and  take  for  granted  that  she  would  be  pleased 
with  a  handsome  establishment.  There  was  one 
point  on  which  he  began  to  feel  a  growing  fear. 
In  her  love  for  him — if  she  loved  him — and  of  that  he 

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was  not  wholly  sure — he  wondered  if  she  might  not 
be  like  the  sea-women  of  legend,  who  clasped  their 
arms  round  a  man's  neck  in  one  desperate,  strangling 
embrace,  and  dragged  him  downward. 

Nevertheless,  she  had  so  long  inspired  his  imagina 
tion  that  she  filled  it  now.  It  was  of  her  he  thought 
chiefly  while  Esther  Legrand's  voice,  with  the  mellow 
organ  accompaniment,  filled  the  church.  It  was  of 
her  he  was  still  thinking  when  the  voice  ceased, 
and  the  single  light  was  extinguished,  and  the  singer 
went  away. 

For  a  few  minutes  he  continued  to  sit  in  the  dark 
ening  nave  thinking  vaguely  of  many  things.  When 
he  rose  at  last  it  was  to  turn  his  steps  homeward. 
He  had  had  enough  of  Esther  Legrand's  personality 
for  one  day.  He  had  an  idea  that  more  might  not 
be  good  for  him. 

Some  twenty  paces  from  the  church  door  he  en 
countered  Rufus  Legrand.  It  was  perhaps  to  give  a 
plausible  explanation  of  his  presence  in  Vandiver 
Place,  when  no  such  explanation  was  needed,  that 
Charlie  Grace  began  at  once  on  the  subject  of  the 
memorial  to  his  father. 

Rufus  Legrand's  eyes  searched  the  younger  man's 
with  the  kindly  scrutiny  of  one  with  whom  it  has 
become  a  primary  habit  to  look  behind  the  out 
ward  mask  to  what  is  hidden  in  the  soul.  "Suppose 
you  come  back  with  me.  Then  we  could  talk  about 
it." 

So,  within  a  few  minutes,  Charlie  Grace  found 
himself  seated  in  the  rectory  study,  which  he  had 
last  seen  on  the  day  when  he  had  left  his  father's 
house  for  good.  It  was  not  greatly  changed.  The 
books,  the  desk,  the  worn  sofa,  the  leather-covered 

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chairs,  the  very  photographs  of  English  cathedrals 
on  the  walls,  might  have  dated  from  his  father's 
time.  Youthful  recollections  of  all  kinds  came  con 
fusedly  back  to  him  to  culminate  and  become  clear 
in  that  of  the  night  when  he  and  his  father  had  sat 
together  here  on  the  return  from  his  mother's 
funeral. 

Possibly  the  present  incumbent  of  St.  David's  had 
similar  thoughts,  for  he  said,  when  they  had  got 
seated,  "How  strange  it  is,  Charlie,  that  you  and  I 
should  be  talking  of  a  memorial  to  your  father  in 
this  particular  room,  which  seems  so  full  of  his 
presence." 

Very  affectionately  they  discussed  reminiscences 
of  Dr.  Grace  till  they  got  back  to  the  subject  in  hand. 

"I  should  like  to  do  it  handsomely,"  the  son  said, 
not  without  feeling,  "and  set  aside  a  sum  of  money 
for  its  decent  upkeep.  I  don't  want  to  saddle  the 
church  with  an  additional  item  of  expense." 

The  rector  expressed  his  appreciation  of  this,  add 
ing,  "It  will  not  only  greatly  facilitate  our  work, 
but  it  gives  me  satisfaction  that  your  generosity 
should  take  this  form." 

Charlie  Grace  reflected,  his  arm  resting  on  the 
flat-topped  desk  near  which  he  sat  and  his  eyes  fixed 
vaguely  on  the  buff-colored  blind  hung  flatly  against 
the  pointed  window.  "I'm  afraid  generosity  isn't 
the  word,"  he  said,  pensively.  "I  feel  I  ought  to 
explain  that.  I'm  not  doing  the  thing  from  generous 
motives." 

Rufus  Legrand,  his  elbows  on  the  arms  of  his 
chair,  which  stood  in  one  of  the  corners  of  the  room, 
fitted  the  tips  of  his  fingers  together  in  the  manner 
traditional  with  ecclesiastics.  A  faint  smile  played 

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over  his  keen  ascetic  face.  "You're  doing  it  from 
motives  that  will  seem  generous — to  us." 

"You  mean  that  you'll  take  the  donation  and  give 
me  the  benefit  of  the  doubt." 

"If  there  is  a  doubt.  But  in  the  case  of  a  memo 
rial  to  your  father  I  don't  see  where  the  doubt 
could  come  in." 

"I  do.  And  yet,"  he  added,  meditatively,  "I 
don't  know  whether  to  tell  you  about  it  or  not." 

"Why  shouldn't  you?" 

"Because,  if  I  did,  you  mightn't  want  the  thing." 

"In  that  case  don't  you  think  we  ought  to  know?" 

"It's  something  I  should  be  quite  justified  in 
saying  nothing  about;  and  yet  if  I  do  say  nothing 
about  it  I  may  give  you  a  false  impression.  It's  this," 
he  continued,  after  some  thinking;  "in  giving  this 
building  to  St.  David's  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  con 
sidered  as  a  sort  of  benefactor  to  the  Church — I 
mean  the  organized  Christian  Church — because — 
well,  because  I'm  opposed  to  the  organized  Christian 
Church.  I've  been  opposed  to  it  for  a  good  many 
years,  as  perhaps  you  know." 

"No;  I  didn't  know — at  least,  not  definitely." 
Then,  after  reflection,  "And  if  you  object  to  appear 
ing  as  a  benefactor  of  the  Christian  Church,  how 
should  I  have  to  understand  you  to  be  offering  us 
this  aid  to  our  work?" 

"I  should  be  trying  to  reassert  my  father's  repu 
tation — and  I  should  be  doing  it  vindictively." 

Rufus  Legrand  nodded,  slowly.  "I  see.  It 
would  be  a  bit  of  retaliation;  but  it  would  be  noble 
retaliation." 

"Not  as  I  should  feel  it.  It  would  only  be  noble 
because  I  can't  find  any  other  way  of  doing  it." 

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"That  is,"  the  clergyman  smiled,  "you  find  that 
a  good  tree  must  bring  forth  good  fruit  in  spite  of 
your  wishes  to  the  contrary." 

"If  by  the  good  tree  you  mean  me,  sir,  you're 
mistaken.  I'm  a  bad  lot." 

In  hearing  himself  pronounce  these  words  Charlie 
Grace  was  startled,  but  once  they  were  uttered  he 
recognized  them  as  what,  subconsciously,  he  had 
long  wanted  to  say.  It  was  a  relief  to  have  the 
thing  out — not  to  have  to  suppress  it  or  dissimulate 
it  any  longer.  He  had  not  even  been  aware  of  sup 
pression  and  dissimulation  till  this  minute  of  being 
candid  with  himself.  The  solace  of  the  moment  was 
like  that  from  discomfort  which  a  man  has  taken 
as  a  matter  of  course,  not  supposing  it  can  be 
eased. 

Legrand  continued  to  smile  gently.  "A  bad  lot — 
how?" 

"Oh,  in  different  ways.     Morally,  for  one  thing." 

"And  for  another?"" 

"Oh,  I'm  a  rotter  all  round.  I  don't  think  I  can 
express  it  better  than  that." 

The  brief  silence  that  ensued  gave  these  words  a 
sort  of  solemnity.  "You've  been  a  good  man  of 
affairs,"  the  rector  said,  tentatively. 

"It  depends  on  what  you  mean  by  good.  I've 
been  a  successful  one — on  a  modest  scale." 

"And  you're  happily  married." 

"Very."  The  word  came  out  with  a  kind  of 
metallic  assertiveness,  as  though  he  feared  con 
tradiction.  He  couldn't  have  told  what  impelled 
him  to  add,  "But  I'm  a  rotter  even  there." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  haven't  made  your  wife 
happy  ?" 

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"I  doubt  if  I  ever  could.  I'm  not  the  sort  of 
nature  a  woman  like  her  can  admire." 

"  But  you've  been  faithful — " 

"Oh  yes — so  far — in  the  letter."  He  paused  be 
fore  adding,  "I'm  not  so  sure  about  the  spirit." 

"That  is,  you  haven't  been  free  from  temptation — " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "If  you  choose  to 
use  the  word.  By  nature  I'm  a — I'm  a — Turk,"  he 
declared  with  an  embarrassed  laugh.  "But  that 
isn't  it."  There  was  another  pause.  Now  that  he 
had  begun  on  it,  he  grew  interested  in  his  own  case. 
It  was  like  the  satisfaction  he  occasionally  got  in 
describing  his  symptoms  to  a  doctor.  "When  I 
spoke  of  myself  as  a  rotter,"  he  went  on,  at  last,  "I 
meant  that  I  might  be — I  may  be — falling  in  love 
with  another  woman." 

Rufus  Legrand  betrayed  neither  surprise  nor  dis 
may,  though  the  gentle  smile  gave  place  to  a  look 
of  gravity.  "Is  that  a  process  like  a  fever  that  has 
to  take  its  course?  Or  is  there  a  preventative — 

"I  don't  know  of  any  preventative  but  drowning — 
or  strangulation.  It's  the  sort  of  thing  with  which 
you  can  only  take  violent  measures — like  choking  it 
to  death." 

"Well,  then,  why  don't  you  take  them?" 

"That's  more  easily  said  than  done,"  he  returned, 
moodily. 

"Since  you've  given  me  your  confidence  so  far, 
may  I  venture  to  inquire  if  the  lady  in  question  is 
what  is  conventionally  known  as  a  good  woman 
or  not?" 

"Oh,  she's  good.  That's  just  it.  If  I  were  to 
fall  in  love  with  her,  it  would  be  in  the  first  place 
with  her  goodness." 

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"Then  that's  a  safeguard,  isn't  it?  Especially," 
he  added,  as  an  afterthought,  "if  she  isn't  in  love 
with  you?" 

"  She's  not  in  love  with  me,"  he  declared,  with  some 
emphasis.  Then,  in  qualification:  "But  I  don't 
know  that  she  mightn't  be — if  we  were  to  see  much 
of  each  other.  You  understand  that  I'm  saying  so 
not  in  fatuity,  but  in  fear." 

"Oh,  quite  so.  But  isn't  it  the  obvious  inference 
that  she  shouldn't  see  much  of  you?" 

Charlie  Grace  got  up  and  began  to  pace  the  floor. 
"That's  one  of  the  good  resolutions  not  so  easy  to 
keep.  All  sorts  of  things  throw  people  together, 
whether  they  will  or  no." 

"And  of  this  secondary  attachment — if  it  is  an 
attachment — I  presume  your  wife  has  no  idea  at 
all." 

"Oh  yes,  she  has." 

"So  soon?  You've  only  been  married — let  me 
see — when  was  it?" 

"Last  April.  Not  quite  a  year.  But  it  had  be 
gun  before  that — I  mean  this  other  thing.  My  wife 
knew  about  it  because — well,  because  I  don't  think 
I  should  have  realized  it  myself  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
her." 

Legrand  pondered.     "That's  a  little  abstruse — " 

"I  mean,"  Charlie  Grace  continued,  "that  it  was 
my  wife  who  put  the  notion  into  my  head.  She 
let  me  see  she  was  afraid  of  it,  and  so  I've  begun  to 
perceive  that  there's  something  for  her  to  be  afraid 
of.  It's  action  and  reaction,  you  see.  I  dare  say 
I  should  have  found  it  out  for  myself  sooner  or  later, 
but  I  hadn't  found  it  out  when  Hilda  began — 

"To  show  she  was  unhappy." 
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"To  show  she  was  imaginative.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  it  wouldn't  make  any  difference  to  her,  because 
I  should  love  her  just  the  same  even  if—  You  see," 
he  tossed  off,  as  he  tramped  up  and  down,  "men  are 
born  polygamous,  say  what  you  will." 

The  clergyman  smiled.  "Men  may  be  born 
polygamous,  as  you  say;  and  yet  polygamy  doesn't 
make  for  happiness,  does  it?  You  yourself  are 
less  satisfied  with  life  than  you  would  be  if  your  in 
stincts  were — well,  let  us  say  monogamous?" 

"I  don't  know.    I'm  all  mixed  up.    I'm  all  at  sea." 

"And  probably  the  spring  of  your  trouble  lies 
there.  Isn't  it  possible  that  you  lack  a  definite 
guiding  principle — ?" 

He  came  to  a  halt,  in  order  to  say,  firmly:  "No, 
sir.  I  don't  lack  that.  I've  a  very  clear  guiding 
principle.  I  adopted  it  years  ago — in  this  very 
house — after  a  conversation  with  my  father.  I've 
been  true  to  it  all  along."  He  allowed  a  few  sec 
onds  to  pass  before  adding,  "It's  to  consider  no 
one  but  myself." 

"Ah?    Indeed!" 

"I'm  rather  crude  in  expressing  it,  because  I've 
never  made  a  secret  of  it  from  the  first.  It  was  one 
of  the  things  that  alienated  me  from  religion,  that  so- 
called  Christians  adopted  the  same  principle  with 
out  being  frank  about  it.  If  I'm  over-frank,  it's 
only  that  I  don't  want  to  be  like  them — and  not 
that  I  mean  to  shock  you." 

"Oh,  you  don't  shock  me.  After  the  life  I've 
lived — and  the  many,  many  human  souls  I've  had 
to  deal  with — it  isn't  possible  to  shock  me  at  my 
age.  I  was  only  thinking  that  the  principle  you 
enunciate  so — so  concisely — is  likely  to  end  in  com- 

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plications,  isn't  it?  To  consider  no  one  but  oneself 
seems  relatively  easy,  as  an  academic  theory;  and 
yet  when  you  try  to  put  it  into  practice,  in  a  civiliza 
tion  of  which  the  dominant  law  is  that  you  must 
consider  other  people  too,  you're  very  like  a  wild 
man  running  amuck." 

To  this  Charlie  Grace  made  no  response.  For 
some  five  or  ten  minutes  he  sat  staring  gloomily  at 
the  floor.  When  he  looked  up  it  was  to  say,  with 
a  half-smile:  "I  notice  you  don't  offer  me  any  ad 
vice,  sir." 

"You  haven't  asked  for  any.  But  if  you  had, 
what  could  I  say  that  you  don't  know  already?" 

The  younger  man  rose.  "In  any  case,  you've 
been  awfully  kind  to  listen  to  me.  I  don't  know 
what's  led  me  on  to  gassing  in  this  way.  I  shall  be 
sorry  for  it  in  the  morning.  I  certainly  should  be, 
if  it  was  any  one  but  you." 

They  shook  hands  on  this,  and  Legrand  accom 
panied  his  guest  to  the  hall.  They  were  at  the 
study  door  when  the  visitor  said:  "And  what  about 
the  original  proposal — my  parish-house?" 

Legrand  looked  at  him  with  the  keen,  kindly  gaze 
that  was  like  a  searchlight.  They  were  both  so  tall 
that  their  eyes  were  on  a  level.  "Don't  you  think 
you  had  better  postpone  that  till — till  you're  in  a 
different  frame  of  mind?" 

Charlie  Grace  nodded.  "I  see.  That's  what  I 
was  afraid  of — that  if  I  told  you  what  a  skunk  I  am 
you  wouldn't  want  to  take  it." 

"The  point  is  not  whether  we  should  take  it,  but 
whether  you  should  offer  it.  And  as  far  as  I  under 
stand  you,  I  wouldn't  offer  it,  if  I  were  you,  while 
you  feel  about  yourself  as  you  do." 

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"I  don't  see  why  not.     I've  got  the  money." 

"Oh,  money  is  not  of  much  help.  In  work  like 
ours  nothing  counts  but  good  will." 

"Isn't  that  an  original  point  of  view? — in  the 
Church  above  all  places?" 

"I  dare  say  that's  how  it  strikes  you.  It's  pos 
sible,  too,  that  the  Church  is  only  beginning  to  under 
stand  that  the  weapons  of  its  warfare  are  spiritual, 
not  carnal.  Certainly,  whatever  the  good  you  can 
do  with  money  that's  given  whole-heartedly,  you 
can't  accomplish  much  with  what's  offered  with  the 
grudge — you'll  excuse  the  word,  Charlie— which 
you'd  attach  to  yours.  It  would  be  like  trying  to 
make  a  solid  tower  out  of  defective  stone.  Your 
parish-house,  even  as  a  memorial  to  your  father, 
could  only  be  a  hindrance  to  us— 

Charlie  Grace  tilted  his  chin  with  an  air  of 
offense.  "Oh,  very  well,  then.  That  settles  the 
question." 

"No,  my  boy;  it  raises  it.  It  raises  it  for  your 
more  thorough — and  may  I  say,  for  your  wiser — 
consideration." 

They  were  moving  along  the  hall  toward  the  front 
door  when  Legrand  said,  hospitably:  "There's  gen 
erally  tea  going  on  at  this  hour.  Won't  you  go  into 
the  drawing-room  and  speak  to  Mrs.  Legrand? 
My  daughter  is  probably  there,  too.  They'll  like 
to  see  you." 

Charlie  Grace  excused  himself  with  some  vehe 
mence.  "I'm  awfully  sorry.  I  really  can't.  No, 
no,"  he  insisted,  as  Legrand  urged  him  toward  the 
closed  drawing-room  door.  "You  must  excuse 
me- 

But  the  sound  of  voices  brought  Esther  into  the 
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hall.  "I  was  sure  it  was  you,  Mr.  Grace,"  she  cried, 
cordially.  "I  told  mother  so.  Oh,  do  come  in. 
There's  something  I  want  to  ask  you." 

"There  you  are,  you  see,"  the  rector  laughed, 
pushing  his  guest  gently  over  the  threshold  of  the 
drawing-room,  and  closing  the  door,  as  he  himself 
retreated  to  the  study. 

"Mother,  here  is  Mr.  Grace.  Isn't  it  too  lovely 
that  I  caught  him  ?  Now  he'll  have  to  tell  us  whether 
or  not  it  was  he  who  sent  the  sewing-machines.  But 
I  know  it  was  he — however  he  may  deny  it." 

Mrs.  Legrand  offered  her  hand  elegantly  from  her 
place  behind  the  tea-table.  Her  greeting  had  the 
courtesy  without  effusiveness  which  marked  her 
bearing  toward  him  since  his  marriage.  "We're 
always  glad  to  see  you,  Charlie,  don't  you  know  we 
are?  And,  oh,  by  the  way—  Mr.  Grace,  Mr. 
Coningsby — Mr.  Coningsby,  Mr.  Grace." 


CHAPTER  X 

/CHARLIE  GRACE  was  quick  to  perceive  that 
^— '  by  a  display  of  friendliness  toward  the  young 
man  to  whom  he  was  thus  introduced  he  could  kill 
more  than  one  bird  with  a  stone.  He  could  brace 
up  his  vacillating  loyalty  to  Hilda;  he  could  please 
Esther  by  being  civil  to  a  man  who  might  be  in  love 
with  her;  and  he  could  withdraw  gracefully — in  his 
own  inner  consciousness,  at  least — from  putting  forth 
any  preposterous  claims  on  her  himself.  After  his 
confession  of  a  few  minutes  earlier  he  needed  the 
assurance  that  he  was  not  such  a  rotter  that  he 
couldn't  be  magnanimous.  Magnanimity  would  get 
him  out  of  an  absurd  situation  with  honor,  even 
though  no  one  knew  of  the  honor  but  himself. 

The  immediate  result  was,  however,  in  another 
order  of  events. 

"So  you've  been  beautifying  our  old  friend  St. 
David's,"  he  said,  when,  his  manners  to  the  ladies 
having  been  made,  he  could  address  himself  to 
Coningsby. 

The  young  man  blushed  boyishly,  taking  the  atten 
tion  as  a  compliment. 

"Not  beautifying.  You  cant  always  beautify  old 
friends,  what?  They're  best  left  to  the  ugliness 
we've  grown  fond  of." 

He  spoke  eagerly,  with  bright-blue  eyes  sparkling. 
A  glance  showed  him  to  be  the  young  American  of 

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family  traditions  and  Anglo-Saxon  blood.  With  his 
fair  skin,  fair  mustache,  and  flaxen  hair  already  thin 
above  the  forehead,  with  his  English  clothes  and  way 
of  speaking,  he  might  have  been  a  recent  graduate 
of  Oxford  or  Cambridge— except  for  his  animation. 
While  he  was  not  much  younger  than  Charlie  Grace 
himself,  the  latter's  larger  frame  and  bronzed  face, 
together  with  his  general  bearing  as  a  man  to  whom 
things  that  stamp  the  character  have  happened, 
made  the  difference  in  their  ages  seem  considerable. 

Charlie  Grace  laughed.  "I  suppose  St.  David's 
is  rather  ugly,  though  I  never  thought  of  it  before." 

"Of  course  you  wouldn't,"  Esther  declared,  warm 
ly,  as  she  passed  cups  of  tea  and  cakes,  "not  any 
more  than  I  should.  St.  David's  is  to  Vandiver 
Place  what  a  dear  old  flattened  nose  is  to  a  dear  old 
face,  all  wrinkles  and  bumps.  You  wouldn't  change 
a  detail  of  it  for  the  world.  Father  says  the  most 
remarkable  part  of  Mr.  Coningsby's  work  is  the 
respect  he's  shown  for  the  mistakes  they  made  in 
1840.  He  says  if  Mr.  Coningsby  had  been  less  of 
an  artist  he  would  have  wanted  to  put  right  some  of 
the  things  they  left  wrong,  and  so  have  made  our 
poor  old  dear  look  worse  through  having  a  new  patch 
on  an  old  garment." 

She  held  toward  Coningsby  the  plate  of  bread- 
and-butter,  looking  down  on  him  with  a  sort  of 
motherly  pride.  It  was  a  pride  so  lacking  in  co 
quetry  or  self-consciousness  that  Charlie  Grace,  in 
spite  of  his  determination  to  count  himself  out,  was 
guilty  of  a  sense  of  reassurance.  No  girl  ever  looked 
in  this  way  at  the  man  she  was  in  love  with,  nor  spoke 
of  him  in  this  way,  either.  And  yet,  having  made 
this  observation,  he  added  quickly  that  it  was  noth- 

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ing  to  him  whether  she  was  in  love  with  any  one  or 
not. 

Coningsby  spoke  with  the  ardor  of  a  man  who  has 
his  subject  at  heart.  "Oh,  you  can't  do  much  with 
what  our  ancestors  have  left  behind  them  but  tear 
it  down  or  let  it  alone.  In  France  they've  only  got 
to  open  a  new  street  and  throw  the  old  work  into 
perspective  to  get  all  the  effect  they  require.  Even 
in  England,  where  there's  never  been  much  in  the 
way  of  native  inspiration,  the  minute  you  clap  a 
wing  in  one  style  on  to  a  house  that's  been  built 
in  another,  time  and  climate  mellow  them  into 
congruity.  But  at  home  we're  hopeless,  what? 
We've  no  architecture  of  our  own,  and  we  haven't 
yet  found  one  that  looks  as  if  it  really  belonged  to 
us." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,"  Mrs.  Legrand  said,  with 
authority.  "Surely  nothing  could  be  more  New- 
Yorky  than  some  of  the  houses  lately  put  up  in  the 
Avenue  and  the  streets  east  of  the  Park.  You 
couldn't  see  them  anywhere  else  in  the  world — 
architecture  or  no  architecture." 

"Oh,  there  are  two  or  three  French  chateaux  up 
that  way,"  Coningsby  admitted,  "that  wouldn't  be 
bad  if  they  had  four  or  five  hundred  acres  of  land 
around  them.  And,  by  the  way,"  he  added,  turning 
toward  Esther,  "I  haven't  yet  found  a  buyer  for 
the  Pavilion  de  Flore." 

"Oh,  you  will,"  she  asserted,  confidently.  "He'll 
turn  up." 

Charlie  Grace  had  the  curiosity  to  ask  the  nature 
of  the  Pavilion  de  Flore,  and  Mrs.  Legrand  made 
the  explanation.  It  was  a  little  joke,  she  said,  a 
little  architectural  joke,  almost  a  family  joke.  It  was 

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a  house  in  East  Seventy-fifth  Street,  for  which  Mr. 
Coningsby  had  been  commissioned  to  find  a  pur 
chaser  by  a  gentleman  who  hadn't  put  it  into  the 
hands  of  the  agents.  Having  built  it  for  his  wife, 
who  died  before  it  was  finished,  he  had  sentimental 
scruples  about  offering  it  for  sale,  and  yet  would  be 
relieved  to  dispose  of  it  privately. 

"It's  one  of  Keene  &  Carstairs'  things,"  Con 
ingsby  explained,  further.  "People  I  studied  with 
—was  in  their  office,  too,  for  a  while,  after  I  came 
back  from  the  Beaux  Arts.  It  isn't  a  bad  house — 
or  it  wouldn't  be,  with  some  alteration.  As  it  is, 
it's  not  everybody's  money.  Big  rooms,  and  not 
enough  of  them — perfectly  magnificent,  one  or  two 
of  them  are — but  no  secondary  accommodations. 
I  call  it  the  Pavilion  de  Flore — the  end  of  the  wing 
of  the  Louvre,  you  know,  toward  the  Tuileries  Gar 
dens  and  the  Seine — because  it  looks  a  little  like  it. 
One  of  the  places  that  would  only  suit  the  right  kind 
of  people — which  is  why  it's  going  at  a  bargain." 

There  was  more  talk  of  the  Pavilion  de  Flore 
which  Charlie  Grace  followed  but  inattentively. 
New  suggestions  were  rising  in  his  mind  as  rapidly  as 
a  covey  of  startled  birds.  Out  of  their  incoherence 
he  extracted  two  main  thoughts — that  the  Pavilion 
de  Flore  might  be  the  very  thing  for  his  future  home, 
and  that  if  he  could  put  something  practical  in 
Ralph  Coningsby's  way  it  would  be  a  proof  of  his 
disinterestedness.  He  took  into  consideration  the 
fact  that  it  wouldn't  be  business  to  buy  a  house 
merely  to  do  Esther  Legrand's  young  man  a  favor; 
but  allowing  for  that,  the  place  itself  seemed,  from 
what  he  was  hearing,  the  thing  he  was  in  search  of. 
He  was  not  only  in  search  of  it,  but  he  had  had  some 

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doubts  of  getting  it.  While  he  had  not  yet  set  him 
self  seriously  to  the  task  of  house-hunting,  all  such 
residences  as  he  coveted  had  proved  on  inquiry  to 
be  beyond  his  means.  He  was  beginning  to  realize 
that  life  in  New  York,  on  the  scale  on  which  he  con 
ceived  of  it,  would  be  expensive.  Too  ambitious 
to  accept  anything  but  the  best,  and  yet  too  prudent 
to  become  involved  in  what  he  couldn't  see  his  way 
out  of,  he  was  not  without  a  dread  of  being  driven 
to  Brooklyn  or  the  west  side  of  the  Park.  But  the 
Pavilion  de  Flore  sounded  possible.  A  little  Fran 
cois  Premier  hotel,  Coningsby  called  it;  and  while 
he,  Charlie  Grace,  wasn't  sure  of  what  that  meant, 
it  sounded  stately,  and  French,  and  like  Hilda.  He 
could  much  more  easily  see  her  in  a  little  Francois 
Premier  hotel,  whatever  it  might  be,  than  in  any 
purely  American  dwelling,  however  numerous  the 
bathrooms. 

"I'm  looking  for  some  sort  of  shelter  myself,"  he 
ventured,  when  he  had  sufficiently  made  up  his  mind. 

Coningsby  flushed  with  embarrassment.  "Oh,  I 
didn't  mean  anything  like  that.  I  don't  believe  it 
would  suit  you,  what?" 

"Very  likely  it  wouldn't,  but  there'd  be  no  harm 
in  my  seeing,  would  there?" 

"There'd  be  no  harm  in  that,"  Esther  corrobo 
rated,  for  Coningsby's  encouragement.  "Mr.  Grace 
isn't  going  to  think  that  just  because  you  happened 
to  mention  the  Pavilion  de  Flore  you  spotted  him  as 
a  victim." 

"And  I  shouldn't  buy  it  to  oblige  you,"  Charlie 
Grace  assured  him,  with  a  laugh.  "Only  if  it  did 
suit  me,  and  I  did  buy  it,  I  presume  we  should  be 
happy  all  round.  When  can  I  have  a  look  at  it?" 


THE     WAY     HOME 


Coningsby  glanced  at  his  watch.  "Well,  now  if 
you  like.  It's  only  half  past  five.  The  electric 
light  is  installed,  and  I've  got  the  key  in  my  pocket." 

In  this  way  Charlie  Grace  became  the  owner  of  a 
house  that  particularly  took  his  fancy.  It  was  small 
in  scale,  yet  spacious  in  all  that  met  the  eye,  and 
looked  its  value.  Moreover,  since  he  had  got  it  at  a 
bargain,  he  could  undoubtedly  sell  it,  if  he  liked,  in 
the  course  of  the  next  ten  years  for  twice  what  he 
paid.  It  was  a  home  that  Hilda  would  delight  in. 
He  had  thought  at  first  of  consulting  her  by  wire, 
but,  as  there  couldn't  be  two  opinions  on  the  subject, 
and  she  could  tell  nothing  from  such  descriptions  as 
he  could  give,  he  judged  that  consultation  was  not 
worth  while.  The  same  reasoning  kept  him  silent 
even  when  the  title-deeds  were  in  his  strong-box. 
Since  it  might  startle  her  to  learn  by  letter  that  he 
had  taken  this  important  step  without  her  co-opera 
tion,  he  considered  it  wiser  to  keep  all  information 
concerning  it  as  the  surprise  of  his  return.  With 
photographs  to  supplement  his  verbal  accounts  she 
would  see  at  a  glance  that  he  had  stumbled  on  the 
nest  that  destiny  itself  had  prepared  for  their 
habitation. 

This  secrecy  did  not,  however,  interfere  with 
much  private  joy  in  his  new  acquisition.  He  di 
rected  conversation  to  householding  topics  at  all 
odd  moments,  in  the  offices  of  the  Trans-Canadian, 
among  his  friends,  and  in  his  clubs.  He  discussed 
taxes,  heating,  and  plumbing  with  other  house 
holders,  and  mentally  collated  their  experiences. 
When  the  business  of  the  day  was  over  he  strolled 
up  the  Avenue  to  East  Seventy-fifth  Street  to  stand 
on  the  opposite  pavement  and  stare  at  his  neat  little 

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French  facade;  or,  letting  himself  in  with  his  latch 
key  and  turning  on  all  the  lights,  he  wandered 
through  the  empty  rooms.  In  his  mind's  eye  he 
furnished  them,  putting  Hilda  here  or  there,  in  the 
graceful  attitudes  of  hospitality  which  he  knew  her 
so  capable  of  taking.  Without  being  aware  of  it 
he  saw  her  generally  en  representation,  receiving 
guests  at  the  head  of  the  staircase,  with  its  sweeping 
wrought-iron  balustrade,  or  surrounded  by  admiring 
friends  in  the  silvery  grisaille  drawing-room,  or  pre 
siding  at  dinners  in  the  long  dining-room  paneled 
in  richly  toned  old  wood  faintly  relieved  with  gold. 
He  had  never  yet  seen  her  in  surroundings  that 
suited  her.  Now  that  he  had  found  them,  he  was  so 
moved  with  gratitude  as  to  be  almost  capable  of 
giving  thanks  to  God. 

Being  unequal  to  that,  he  took  all  the  credit  to 
himself.  For  the  first  time  since  the  beginning  of 
his  years  of  struggle  he  was  able  to  say,  with  deep 
inbreathings  of  satisfaction,  "I've  done  it — and  I've 
done  it  alone."  There  was  a  grim  joy  in  recalling 
the  early  days  of  pinched  means — of  means  that 
seemed  the  more  pinched  because  his  father  and 
mother  had  lived  among  people  of  wealth.  He  grew 
the  less  eager  to  reveal  at  once  the  secret  of  his  new 
treasure  to  Hilda  because  of  the  bliss  he  got  from 
hugging  it  awhile  to  himself. 

He  had  not  yet  outworn  this  rapture  when,  one 
bright  afternoon  in  early  March  as  he  walked  up 
Fifth  Avenue  in  the  neighborhood  of  his  hotel,  his 
attention  was  caught  by  a  well-equipped  motor- 
brougham  that  drew  up  at  the  curb  not  many  yards 
in  front  of  him.  The  vehicle  was  of  a  style  still 
tolerably  novel,  and  his  first  thought  was  of  its  ap- 

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propriateness  for  his  wife.  His  second  was  of  the 
lady  richly  dressed  in  furs  who  descended  from  the 
brougham  and  crossed  the  pavement  with  smooth 
rapid  step  and  distinctly  noble  bearing.  Without 
having  positively  seen  her  features  he  could  have 
sworn  that  it  was  Hattie  Bright. 

Since  she  had  entered  so  public  a  place  as  Hender 
son's  Art  and  Auction  Gallery,  he  had  no  scruple  as 
to  following  her  in,  finding  himself  in  a  modified 
Oriental  bazar,  where  furniture,  porcelains,  rugs, 
pictures,  and  brocades  stirred  the  imagination  with 
a  sense  of  gorgeous  prodigality.  He  dropped  into 
the  nearest  folding-chair  as  soon  as  he  had  dis 
covered  the  lady  in  furs  slightly  in  advance  of  him 
on  the  other  side.  Though  he  had  thus  a  partial 
side  view  of  her  face,  her  thick  veil  kept  him  still  in 
doubt  as  to  her  identity. 

In  the  camp-chairs,  arranged  as  in  a  concert-hall, 
some  fifty  or  sixty  persons  were  seated,  a  few  of  them 
fashionably  dressed,  many  of  them  with  Jewish 
features,  and  all  wearing  the  air  of  being  at  home 
in  auction-rooms.  Even  the  lady  whom  Charlie 
Grace  took  to  be  Miss  Bright  scanned  the  catalogue 
carelessly,  and  looked  about  her  with  nonchalance. 
On  a  dais  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room  a  broad- 
shouldered  man  with  a  patch  over  one  eye  stood 
behind  a  high  desk  and  disposed  of  the  articles  which 
his  assistants  brought  out  from  behind  crimson 
hangings.  Without  the  jokes  or  cajoleries  of  the 
traditional  auctioneer  he  spoke  impersonally,  even 
languidly,  as  to  connoisseurs  too  keen  not  to  see  for 
themselves  the  value  of  the  things  he  presented. 
Objects  appeared  and  disappeared  with  bewildering 
rapidity  and  an  odd  inconsequence  of  order.  A 

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Sheraton  cabinet  was  followed  by  a  pair  of  Japanese 
swords,  a  Sevres  tea-service,  some  old  Sheffield  plate, 
and  a  George  Inness  landscape. 

The  bidding  went  on  as  by  some  mysterious  mutual 
understanding,  so  swiftly  and  silently  that  Charlie 
Grace  could  follow  it  with  neither  eyes  nor  ears. 
As  owner  of  an  empty  house,  he  would  have  been 
glad  now  and  then  to  make  an  offer  on  his  own 
account  had  he  known  how  to  get  it  in.  But  the 
man  with  the  patch  over  one  eye  recited  as  in  a 
litany:  "Fifty — seventy-five — a  hundred — a  hifh- 
dred  and  twenty-five — does  any  one  say  a  hundred 
and  fifty? — a  hundred  and  thirty-five — fifty — three- 
quarters — does  any  one  say  two  hundred? — two 
hundred — two  hundred  and  a  quarter — going  at 
two  hundred  and  a  quarter — going — sold — to  Mrs. 
H."  The  custom  of  naming  habitues  by  initials 
was  also  puzzling — so  puzzling  that  it  came  as  a 
shock  when,  after  the  usual  fluent  and  almost  sound 
less  rise  in  price,  a  pair  of  mezzotint  portraits  was 
announced  as  "going — going  at  a  hundred  and 
twenty — sold — to  Mrs.  Bright." 

The  lady  in  furs  rose,  glided  forward  to  whisper 
a  few  words  to  a  clerk  who  was  taking  notes  or  keep 
ing  accounts,  and  returned  to  her  seat.  Charlie 
Grace  no  longer  had  any  doubt. 

So  she  was  Mrs.  Bright!  He  smiled  to  himself. 
So  many  possibilities  were  sheltered  behind  that  par 
tial  nom  de  guerre  that  they  were  both  amusing  and 
pathetic  to  dwell  on.  By  dwelling  on  them,  in  fact, 
he  lost  the  immediate  succession  of  events,  his  at 
tention  being  again  aroused  when  four  stalwart 
henchmen  carried  into  view  a  library  desk  of  elab 
orately  carved  oak.  According  to  the  catalogue 
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and  the  man  with  the  patch  over  one  eye,  it  had 
passed  through  the  respective  possessions  of  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  and  Mrs.  Siddons.  Each  of  its 
four  carved  doors  was  thrown  open  to  expose  the 
cupboards  and  the  drawers  within.  It  was  turned 
round  to  show  the  elaborate  Renaissance  designs 
at  either  end.  It  was  tipped  sidewise,  frankly,  to 
reveal  the  fact  that  the  green-baize  covering  would 
need  renewal. 

Charlie  Grace  could  already  see  this  masterpiece 
of  the  cabinet-maker's  art  as  the  center  of  the  empty 
library  in  the  Pavilion  de  Flore;  but  almost  before 
he  was  aware  of  it  the  mysterious  bidding  had  be 
gun,  gliding  upward  with  mute  and  incredible  speed. 
"Five  hundred — five  and  a  half — six  hundred — does 
any  one  say  six  hundred  and  a  half? — six  and  a 
quarter — six  and  a  half — six  hundred  and  seventy- 
five — does  any  one  say  seven? — seven  hundred — 
seven  and  a  quarter — seven  hundred  and  fifty — 
seven  hundred  and  fifty — belonged  to  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  gentlemen,  and  Mrs.  Siddons — wonder 
ful  bit  of  modern  Renaissance  carving — seven  hun 
dred  and  fifty — seven  hundred  and  fifty — does  any 
one  say  seven  and  three-quarters — going  at  seven 
hundred  and  fifty — going — 

"Eight  hundred,"  Charlie  Grace  shouted,  des 
perately. 

There  was  a  startled  turning  of  heads.  He  grew 
red  with  confusion.  He  had  probably  transgressed 
all  the  canons  of  auctioneering  etiquette.  But  the 
man  with  the  patch  over  one  eye  continued  fluent 
ly:  "Going  at  eight  hundred — going — sold  to — to 
Mr.—  ?" 

"Mr.  Grace."     Then,  as  if  the  moment  had  come 
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at  which  to  announce  himself  definitely  to  New 
York,  he  added:  "Mr.  Charles  G.  Grace,  of  the 
Hotel  Waldorf  and  East  Seventy-fifth  Street."  The 
attention  accorded  him  by  this  gathering  of  dealers 
in  antiques  and  amateurs  of  objets  d? art  gave  sig 
nificance  to  the  proclamation  of  himself  as  a  coming 
power. 

Having  handed  in  his  check  and  made  arrange 
ments  for  the  removal  of  his  purchase,  he  found  the 
lady  spoken  of  as  Mrs.  Bright  on  the  point  of  de 
parture.  He  was  able  to  open  the  door  for  her  as 
she  passed  out  and  thus  catch  her  eye.  He  noticed 
at  once  that  it  was  the  same  soft,  liquid  eye  as  of 
yore,  with  the  same  oblique,  mischievous  regard. 

"So  you're  Charlie  Grace!"  she  exclaimed,  when 
they  were  outside  and  had  shaken  hands.  "I 
shouldn't  have  known  you — or  rather  I  should  have 
known  you,  because  I  recognized  you  that  night  at 
the  Blitz— did  you  know  me?  But  my!  how  you've 
changed!  Have  I  changed?  But  of  course  I  have. 
Only  I  hope  I  don't  look  so  much  older  than  my 
age  as  you  do.  You  can't  be  more  than — let  me  see! 
—you  can't  be  more  than — " 

"I'm  thirty-one,"  he  said,  frankly,  "and  you  must 
be  about  twenty-nine;  although,"  he  added,  gal 
lantly,  "any  one  but  an  old  friend  like  me — who 
doesn't  forget— would  say  twenty-five  at  most." 

A  laugh  displayed  the  beauty  of  her  mouth  and 
white,  even  teeth.  "Well,  my  compliments  must 
take  another  turn,  because  you  easily  look  forty. 
Only  it's  becoming — though  I  can't  be  the  first  to 
tell  you  that.  Whatever  you've  been  doing  all 
these  years,  it's  agreed  with  you." 

There  was  something  about  her  that  invited  a 

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man's  eyes  to  gaze  deeply  into  hers.     "And  mayn't 
I  say  the  same  of  you?" 

She  laughed  again,  with  a  becoming  flush.  "Oh, 
me!  I  don't  count.  Say,  why  can't  you  drive 
home  with  me  and  have  a  cup  of  tea?" 

There  was  an  instant  too  brief  for  measurement, 
but  long  enough  in  which  to  feel  that  if  he  accepted 
this  invitation  he  might  be  a  lost  man.  He  was 
anxious  not  to  be  a  more  unmitigated  rotter  than 
he  could  help.  By  fumbling  for  his  watch  he  tried 
to  prelude  a  polite  excuse,  when  she  probed  his  re 
luctance  with  disconcerting  frankness. 

"Oh,  you  needn't  be  afraid.     I  sha'n't  eat  you." 

He  smiled  feebly.  "I'm  sorry  for  that.  It  would 
have  been  a  novel  experience." 

"I  know  you're  married,"  she  continued,  as  they 
crossed  the  pavement  toward  the  brougham,  "but 
I'm  quite —  She  seemed  to  search  for  the  proper 
epithet.  "I'm  quite — correct,"  she  concluded,  with 
some  emphasis. 

"You  don't  think  I  question  that? — with  all  this 
elegance." 

The  chauffeur  held  the  door  open  for  his  mistress 
to  enter.  "Oh,  come  along,"  she  insisted,  getting  in. 
"The  Lord  only  knows  when  I  shall  see  you  again." 

Feeling  this  reason  to  be  conclusive,  he  got  in. 
As  he  did  so  it  seemed  to  him  that  Hilda's  eyes  fol 
lowed  him.  Their  golden  gleam  came  suddenly  out 
of  space — solemn,  reproachful.  It  took  nothing 
from  their  appeal  that  they  were  mute,  because 
Hilda's  silences  were  always  more  eloquent  than 
other  people's  words. 

"I  know  you're  married,"  Hattie  Bright  repeated, 
when  he  was  seated  by  her  side  and  they  were  gliding 

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up  Fifth  Avenue.  "Reggie  told  me  so — and  I  saw 
the  announcement  in  the  papers  at  the  time.  I'm 
married,  too — or,  rather,  I  was." 

"I  thought  it  was  once  married,  always  mar 
ried." 

"Well,  it  wasn't  in  my  case." 

"I  noticed  they  spoke  of  you  as  Mrs.  Bright." 

"Well,  yes;  I  do  call  myself  that;  it's  more  con 
venient." 

"They  say  a  man's  name  is  what  he  chooses  to 
call  himself." 

"Well,  I  choose  to  call  myself  that.  In  reality 
I'm— Mrs.  Pillsbury." 

He  uttered  a  sympathetic  "Oh!"  so  as  not  to  be 
deficient  in  tact. 

"Oh,  I've  had  my  ups  and  downs,"  she  admitted, 
with  a  sigh. 

He  felt  it  permissible  to  say,  "But  they've  been 
chiefly  ups,  haven't  they?" 

"That's  as  you  happen  to  look  at  it.  Let  me  see! 
When  did  I  see  you  last?  Oh,  I  remember.  It  was 
just  before  we  left  Tenth  Street.  Well,  I  married 
Mr.  Pillsbury  after  that." 

He  felt  it  discreet  to  pass  over  a  period  which  he 
knew  must  have  intervened  between  the  leaving 
Tenth  Street  and  the  marriage  to  Mr.  Pillsbury, 
contenting  himself  with  the  remark,  "I  wonder  I 
never  heard  of  it." 

"Oh,  well,  you  wouldn't.  We  lived  in  quite  a — a 
retired  way.  It  wasn't  really  the  marriage  for  me  at 
all;  but  he  was  a  good  man — and  well-to-do — a  fish- 
dealer — and  poor  mother  had  to  have  a  home,  you 
see — and  so — " 

She  allowed  him  to  finish  this  part  of  her  biography 

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for  himself.  After  a  brief  silence  he  felt  warranted 
in  asking,  "And  is  he  dead?" 

"I  think  he  is.  I've  heard  so — and  one  of  these 
days  I  must  find  out.  The  fact  is — there's  no 
reason  why  I  shouldn't  tell  you — you  know  the 
world — we  were  divorced." 

He  fell  back  again  on  a  sympathetic,  "Oh!" 

"Yes,  we  were  divorced;  and  now — there's  no 
reason  why  I  shouldn't  tell  you  that,  too — only 
confidentially — I'm  engaged  to  Reggie  Hornblower." 

It  seemed  to  him  a  long  time  before  he  was  suffi 
ciently  master  of  himself  to  say,  in  a  tone  out  of 
which  he  tried  in  vain  to  keep  the  irony,  "Then  I 
must  offer  you — my  congratulations,  mustn't  I?" 

She  affected  nonchalance  by  leaning  slightly  for 
ward  and  inspecting  the  line  of  pedestrians  on  the 
pavement.  "Well,  he  says  he'll  marry  me,"  she 
protested,  as  though  humiliated  by  his  words. 

"If  so,  I  should  jolly  well  keep  him  up  to  it." 

"Oh,  I  mean  to — the  minute  he  gets  back  from 
Europe.  He's  in  Europe  now."  Then,  after  reflec 
tion:  "He's  not  so  bad — Reggie  isn't.  He  drinks 
too  much — I  suppose  you  know  that.  But  he's 
awfully  generous — and  he's — he's  fond  of  me." 

"And  you're  fond  of  him,  aren't  you?" 

"I  could  be — if  he'd  do  what  he  said." 

"You  mean — marry  you." 

She  nodded,  silently,  and  the  subject  dropped. 

On  leaving  Hattie  Bright's  apartment  in  the  Hotel 
Doria,  situated  in  one  of  the  streets  running  into 
Riverside  Drive,  Charlie  Grace  again  took  occasion 
to  call  himself  a  rotter.  Not  that  anything  had  been 
done  or  said  or  even  hinted  at  to  which  a  censor  of 

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morals  could  have  taken  exception.  As  the  lady 
herself  had  declared,  she  was  quite  correct — she  was 
strikingly  correct.  In  a  tiny  drawing-room  of  un 
certain  taste,  heavy  with  the  scent  of  flowers  and 
overcrowded  with  questionable  bric-a-brac,  she  had 
made  tea  with  all  the  forms  which  accompany  that 
ceremony  amid  the  most  choice  surroundings.  The 
conversation,  too,  was  such  as  goes  on  between  real 
ladies  and  gentlemen  during  this  social  hour  of  the 
afternoon,  and  dealt  with  literature,  the  stage,  the 
Church,  or  whatever  else  was  incidental  to  old  memo 
ries.  It  was  largely  occupied,  indeed,  with  such 
harmless  domestic  details  as  to  how  her  mother  had 
died  and  his  father  had  done  the  same  as  were 
likely  to  come  up  at  a  meeting  of  friends  of  long 
standing. 

And  yet  the  young  man  had  not  descended  in  the 
lift  as  far  as  the  street  floor  before  he  began  calling 
himself  by  the  opprobrious  name  which  of  late  was 
so  often  on  his  lips.  For  Hattie  he  had  not  a  word 
of  blame.  She  was  precisely  what  she  had  always 
been — beautiful,  good-natured,  a  little  common, 
above  all,  an  amoureuse.  He  enjoyed  the  talk  with 
her  about  old  times,  and,  as  a  man  with  no  preju 
dices,  he  sympathized  with  her  difficult  situation. 
If  anything  were  to  come  of  their  meeting  that  would 
make  him  more  intensely  a  rotter  than  he  was  as 
yet,  it  would  be  his  fault  rather  than  hers.  And 
that  something  might  come  of  it  had  been  the 
arriere  pensee  of  their  intercourse.  It  needed  no 
words— it  needed  not  even  so  much  as  the  exchange 
of  involuntary,  disturbing  glances  into  which  they 
were  betrayed,  apparently  because  they  couldn't 
help  it.  It  was  in  the  situation.  It  was  in  the 


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traditions  and  conventions  of  the  world  into  which 
they  entered  the  minute  they  set  off  in  the  motor- 
brougham  together.  So  long  as  they  kept  to  that 
world  they  would  run  counter  to  no  preconceptions 
and  break  no  laws.  It  would  be  in  going  back  to 
the  other  world — the  every-day  world — that  trouble 
would  come,  as  Charlie  Grace  was  quick  to  foresee. 
He  was  a  rotter,  therefore,  for  getting  himself  into 
a  position  where  such  complications  could  obtain. 
He  was  a  rotter  because  he  had  accepted  an  invita 
tion  to  come  back,  on  a  day  in  the  near  future,  and 
dine  with  her.  He  was  a  rotter  above  all  because  he 
was  like  a  fly,  who,  knowing  the  dangers  that  beset 
fly-life,  has  let  itself  be  caught  within  the  outer 
convolutions  of  a  cobweb. 

All  that  evening,  all  that  night,  all  the  next  day, 
he  could  see  Hilda's  golden-brown  eyes  gazing  at 
him  reproachfully.  They  seemed  to  be  in  the  air 
and  to  meet  him  at  every  turn.  He  saw  no  features 
— only  the  eyes — luminous,  haunting. 

It  was  in  a  fever  of  propitiation  to  those  eyes  that 
during  the  next  few  days  he  threw  himself  into  an 
ecstasy  of  buying  for  the  new  house.  The  carved 
oaken  desk  had  been  a  point  of  departure.  In  the 
hours  he  was  free  from  the  office  he  frequented  the 
merchants,  who,  after  ransacking  palaces,  convents, 
and  cathedrals  for  treasures,  lined  themselves  along 
Fifth  Avenue;  and  whatever  Hilda  would  admire  or 
enjoy  he  bought.  Now  it  was  a  picture,  now  a  rug, 
now  a  carved  chest,  now  a  pair  of  vases,  and  now  a 
set  of  chairs.  He  bought,  it  is  true,  for  the  pleasure 
of  buying,  for  the  satisfaction  the  home-builder  gets 
in  preparing  a  nest  for  his  mate;  but  he  bought 
chiefly  as  a  Greek  might  heap  flowers  on  the  shrine 

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of  Pallas  before  offering  a  dove  to  Aphrodite.  When 
the  date  of  the  dinner  in  the  flat  near  the  Riverside 
Drive  had  come  round  the  larger  rooms  of  the 
Pavilion  de  Flore  were  not  without  a  resemblance 
to  the  art  and  auction  gallery  which  had  given 
Charlie  Grace  his  inspiration.  He  found  the  general 
effect  tasteful — and  rich. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  he  bought,  too,  because 
the  money  he  couldn't  spend  on  the  memorial  to  his 
father  was  burning  in  his  pocket.  It  was  burning 
in  his  pocket  because  there  was  something  burning 
in  his  heart.  He  admitted  as  much  as  that  to  Esther 
Legrand,  whom  he  met  one  day  while  making  a  duty- 
call  on  Miss  Smedley.  She  had  come  in  on  some 
errand  that  had  to  do  with  altar-linen,  and  he  man 
aged  to  slip  out  with  her  when  she  went  away. 

"You  know  it's  all  up  with  my  plan  about  the 
parish-house,"  he  said,  as  he  walked  slowly  beside 
her  along  the  crowded  pavement  of  Vandiver 
Place. 

She  looked  at  him  with  misty  violet  eyes.  A  light 
flush,  which  might  have  been  caused  by  the  honor  of 
his  company,  threw  into  relief  a  few  small  primrose- 
tinted  freckles  he  had  never  noticed  by  the  tempered 
light  of  indoors. 

"No!"  The  brief  response  was  full  of  incredulous 
protest. 

"It  is,  though.  Your  father  won't  have  it.  Says 
I'm  not  good  enough  to  build  it." 

"Oh,  but  you  are!" 

Her  conviction  made  him  smile.  "It's  very  kind 
of  you  to  think  so;  but  I  can't  agree  with  you." 

"Oh,  nobody  knows  whether  he's  good  or  not. 
Even  father  doesn't.  Any  one  else  can  see  that  he's 

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a  saint;   but  you  couldn't  make  him  believe  it  about 
himself." 

"I  guess,"  Charlie  Grace  said,  dryly,  "I  could 
believe  it  about  myself — if  it  was  true." 

"Oh  no,  you  couldn't.  You  wouldn't  be  a  saint 
if  you  could.  I  don't  attach  any  importance  to 
what  you  feel  at  all." 

"But  if  your  father  feels  so — ?" 

She  sobered.  "If  father  feels  so — then  you  must 
have  led  him  into  some  mistake." 

He  shook  his  head,  smiling  with  a  dim,  wry  smile. 
"Oh  no,  I  haven't." 

She  stopped,  confronting  him,  heedless  of  the 
passers-by.  "But  you're  the  best  man  I  know — 
except  father — and  he's  quite  another  style." 

"Oh,  quite." 

"Well,  then?" 

"Well,  then — nothing."  He  threw  out  his  hands 
with  a  little  gesture.  "Only  one  other  woman  in 
the  world  ever  made  your  mistake  about  me — and 
she  died  about  the  time  you  were  born." 

Her  brows  contracted  into  a  frown  of  perplexity. 
"I  don't  understand  you — " 

"Happily  for  you.'; 

"It  isn't  happily  for  me,  because  I  like  to  under 
stand  people — and — and — help  them."  She  added, 
shyly:  "I  can,  you  know." 

"Oh,  I  know  that  well  enough.  You  could  help 
me — if  everything  was  different  from  what  it  is,  as 
I  once  heard  you  say." 

They  had  walked  on  for  a  few  minutes  in  silence 
when  she  stopped  again.     "If  you're  not  good- 
she  began,  falteringly. 

"Well?     What  then?" 

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"Why,  I  know  plenty  of  people^- plenty  of  men 
— who  aren't.  Of  course  I  do.  I'm  seeing  them 
every  day.  They're  not  gentlemen  like  you — nor 
Americans — generally,  that  is — but  I  suppose — 

He  helped  her  out.  "That  human  nature  is 
much  the  same  whatever  the  class  or  the  nation 
ality." 

"Yes;  that's  what  I  mean.  And  I  know —  '  She 
colored,  but  went  on  bravely.  "I  know  the  sort  of 
things  that  make  them  not  good — I  have  to — if  I 
didn't  I  couldn't  help  the  wives  and  children — or 
talk  to  the  men  themselves — " 

"Oh,  you  talk  to  the  men  themselves,  do  you?" 

"You  see,  I  must.  Mother  doesn't  want  me  to, 
and  father  doesn't  like  it  very  much — or,  rather,  he 
doesn't  know — I  don't  tell  him,  because  he  might 
think  it —  But,  you  see,  I  must.  You  can't  do 
anything  else  when  you  live  among  all  the  things 
we  live  among — and  they  do  listen — some  of  them." 

He  was  thinking  of  her  more  than  of  himself,  as, 
gazing  deeply  into  her  eyes,  he  said:  "But  you 
couldn't  talk  to  me — because  I  don't  accept  the 
grounds  on  which  you  appeal  to  them." 

She  spoke  quite  simply.  "Do  you  mean — about 
Jesus?" 

He  nodded,  smiling  to  himself  at  her  directness. 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,"  she  pleaded,  "because — 
well,  because  it's  the  beginning  of  it  all." 

"Exactly.  So  that  with  me  you'd  have  no  start 
ing-point." 

They  walked  on  again.  Presently  she  turned  to 
him  with  one  of  her  bright  smiles.  "But  I  know 
you're  all  wrong.  I  know  you're  a  good  man — the 
best  man  in  the  world — except  father." 

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"I  couldn't  be  even  the  second  best  man  in  the 
world — but  with  some  one  to  believe  in  me  as  you 
do,  I  might  have  been  better  than  I  am." 

"Then  you  have  some  one.     You  have  me." 

He  muttered  under  his  breath:  "But  you've  come 
too  late." 

At  the  door  of  St.  David's  they  found  Remnant, 
wearing  his  beadle's  gown  in  honor  of  the  approach 
ing  five-o'clock  service. 

"Well,  well,  now,"  he  exclaimed,  as  the  long-ex 
tinguished  twinkle  came  back  into  his  little  eyes. 
"It's  as  auxilarating  to  me,  Mr.  Charlie,  to  see  you 
and  Miss  Esther  together  as  a  taste  o'  sperrits. 
Seems  as  if  you  was  two  children,  like,  and  I'd 
brought  you  both  up.  I  have  brought  you  up,  in  a 
manner  of  speaking — especially  you,  Mr.  Charlie. 
And  how  is  the  other  young  lady — Mrs.  Grace,  that 
is?  Not  but  what  she's  a  nice  young  lady,  too,"  he 
added,  with  compunction. 

Esther  said  good-by,  going  into  the  church  to 
play  the  organ  for  the  afternoon  service. 

"She's  an  angel,  if  there  ever  was  one — Miss 
Esther  is,"  Remnant  declared,  when  the  friends  were 
alone.  "If  religion  was  all  like  her  it  'u'd  be  another 
thing." 

"I  guess  that's  right,  Remnant,"  Charlie  Grace 
agreed. 

The  old  man  took  on  a  ruminating  air.  "I've 
often  thought,  Mr.  Charlie,  how  pleasant  it  'u'd 
have  been  if  you  and  her — "  He  broke  off  to  add: 
"Not  but  what  you  may  have  got  a  nice  young 
lady,  as  it  is.  I'm  sure  I  hope  so.  I  don't  say 
contrary  to  it — not  a  bit.  Only  Miss  Esther — 
well,  there's  no  two  ways  about  it — she's  a'  angel." 

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It  was  more  than  a  relief  to  Charlie  Grace  that 
the  dinner  that  evening  at  the  Hotel  Doria  was 
without  other  than  pleasant  incidents.  It  was, 
moreover,  an  excellent  dinner,  accompanied  by  an 
excellent  champagne  and  the  cigars  of  a  con 
noisseur.  It  was  evident  that  Hattie  Bright  had 
studied  the  art  of  making  a  man  comfortable,  even 
to  the  chair  he  sat  in.  Her  conversation,  too,  was 
of  the  kind  that  a  man  with  a  good  cigar  could 
settle  himself  to  enjoy.  It  was  free  and  racy,  with 
out  being  improper — at  least,  it  was  not  improper 
so  long  as  it  was  confidential  and  tete-a-tete.  There 
was  humor  in  it,  and  naivete,  and  pathos,  and  a  vast 
store  of  amusing  personal  anecdote.  Charlie  Grace 
learned  the  startling  inner  history  of  many  old 
friends  and  acquaintances  whose  lives  he  had  hither 
to  supposed  to  be  passably  correct.  It  was  wonder 
ful  how  much  alike  people  were  when  you  really 
got  at  them.  Except  that  some  were  more  careful 
of  appearances  than  others,  there  was  not  much 
difference  between  good  and  bad.  Being  a  man  who 
knew  the  world,  as  Hattie  Bright  was  fond  of  telling 
him,  he  could  take  the  information  she  imparted  in 
the  purely  laughable  spirit  in  which  one  follows  the 
revelations  made  in  a  Palais  Royal  farce. 

Dressed  simply  in  white,  with  no  ornament  but  a 
string  of  pearls  which  might  have  been  artificial, 
Hattie  herself  was  very  lovely.  Passing  lightly 
from  her  own  sorrows,  over  which  she  shed  real 
tears,  to  some  rollicking  fact  in  the  absolutely  pri 
vate  life  of  Freddy  Furnival — whose  outer  career  was 
of  the  sedateness  essential  to  a  man  rapidly  making 
a  reputation  for  himself  in  the  higher  walks  of 
medicine — she  displayed  an  artlessness  that  dis- 

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armed  suspicion.  That  is,  it  disarmed  suspicion  of 
design.  Charlie  Grace  was  persuaded  that  if  "any 
thing  were  to  come"  of  his  visits  to  the  Hotel  Doria 
— he  used  the  formula  again — it  would  be  by 
accident. 

Nothing  coming  of  his  second  visit,  he  had  the 
less  hesitation  in  making  a  third.  Nothing  coming 
of  the  third,  he  accepted  an  invitation  to  a  fourth. 
The  dinners  continued  to  be  excellent.  He  didn't 
know  what  to  do  with  his  evenings.  He  was  lonely. 
Hattie  was  lonely,  too. 

"It's  all  very  well  for  Reggie,"  she  complained. 
"He  can  go  and  come  as  he  likes— and  always  ex 
pects  to  find  me  here.  He  won't  let  me  know  a  soul. 
Not  that  I  want  to.  I  could  if  I  liked,  of  course. 
But  you  know  the  world.  If  we're  married — I 
mean,  when  we're  married— I  don't  want  to  be  both 
ered  with  a  lot  of  embarrassing  acquaintances. 
That's  one  reason  why  I  haven't  gone  on  the  stage. 
I  could  if  I  liked,  of  course.  But  I'd  only  have  to 
drop  them — and  I  always  hate  dropping  any  one 
who's  been  a  real  friend.  Of  course,  I've  had  to  now 
and  then — but  it  always  makes  me  feel  mean.  So 
I'm  very  lonely,  Charlie."  She  dashed  away  a  tear 
with  a  plump,  bejeweled  hand.  "You  don't  know 
how  much  good  it  does  me  to  see  an  old  friend  like 
you.  You've  always  been  so  nice.  So  do  come  on 
Thursday.  You  can  see  for  yourself  that — I'm 
harmless." 

But  on  Thursday  there  was  a  change  in  the  atmos 
phere.  Hattie  herself  was  pensive.  She  was  also 
sumptuously  dressed.  The  dinner  was  even  better 
than  usual,  while  orchids  on  the  table  produced  an 
effect  of  prodigal  display.  His  thoughts  wandered 


THE     WAY     HOME 


to  old  Silas  Hornblower,  who  had  refused  a  few  dol 
lars  to  save  from  starvation  the  woman  who  was 
now  unconsciously  taking  her  revenge  by  spending 
his  money  royally.  He  smiled  to  himself  at  that. 
It  was  an  exceptionally  apt  touch  on  the  part  of 
poetic  justice. 

He,  too,  was  pensive.  The  little  flat  was  over 
heated  and  stifling.  In  consequence  he  drank  more 
than  his  ordinary,  temperate  measure  of  champagne. 
The  drawing-room  was  heavy  with  the  scent  of 
flowers — and  other  scents,  exotic  and  indefinable. 
They  smoked  silently.  It  was  the  first  occasion  on 
which  he  had  seen  Hattie  herself  take  a  cigarette. 
He  spoke  of  it. 

"I  never  do,"  she  smiled,  languidly,  "except  when 
I'm  in — certain  moods." 

"What  moods?" 

She  made  no  answer,  but  their  eyes  met. 

Their  eyes  met  with  that  disturbing  glance,  linger 
ing  and  yet  furtive,  which  alarmed  him.  He  looked 
away,  but  only  to  become  the  more  conscious  that 
she  did  not.  He  fastened  his  gaze  now  on  this  ob 
ject,  now  on  that,  in  order  not  to  see  that  her  gaze 
was  fastened  on  him.  He  felt  stupid,  foolish,  drunk 
with  something  more  than  wine.  He  tried  violently 
to  think  of  Hilda;  he  appealed  desperately  to  Esther 
Legrand;  but  both  had  withdrawn  into  the  realm  of 
unrealities.  The  only  things  real  and  vivid  were 
in  this  room,  with  its  heat  and  its  flowers,  and  its 
sumptuous  woman,  with  her  profound,  Circe-like 
stare. 

It  was  nearly  eleven  when  he  tore  himself  out  of 
the  drowsy  spell  to  say  good  night. 

She  sat  still.     "Oh,  don't  go." 
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"I'm  afraid  I  must.  I've  been  working  hard  all 
day."  He  pulled  out  his  watch.  "It's  getting 
late." 

"Oh  no,  it  isn't.  Do  sit  down.  Have  you  seen 
these?" 

She  sprang  up  and  came  forward  to  the  fireplace 
beside  which  he  was  standing.  They  were  close 
together. 

She  took  into  her  hands  one  of  a  pair  of  scale-blue 
Worcester  vases  that  adorned  the  ends  of  the  mantel 
piece.  "I  bought  them  to-day — at  the  Art  and 
Auction  Gallery.  Regular  bargain.  I'm  sure  they're 
genuine.  Feel  their  glaze." 

He  drew  back.  "It's  no  use  my  doing  that,"  he 
laughed,  nervously.  "I  don't  know  anything  about 
such  things." 

"Just  feel  it,"  she  insisted,  taking  the  tips  of  his 
fingers,  and  running  them  up  and  down  the  painted 
surface.  "So  smooth  and  creamy,  isn't  it?  That's 
how  you  can  tell.  I  want  to  show  you  something 
else  I  picked  up  to-day.  A  little  bit  of  Sevres.  It's 
in  the  dining-room.  Sit  down.  I'll  fetch  it.  No, 
come  in.  Come  into  the  dining-room.  I'll  turn  on  a 
light."  She  pushed  aside  the  portieres,  and  passed 
beyond  them.  "Come,"  she  called,  softly. 

Through  the  clamor  of  his  senses  he  kept  his  head 
sufficiently  to  hear  the  two  Voices  within  himself. 
The  one  said: 

"If  you  go  in  there  you're  done  for." 

The  other: 

"Hilda  won't  suspect  you  any  the  less  if  you 
stay,  or  any  the  more  if  you  go.  So  why  not — go?" 

He  went.  As  he  entered  the  room  only  the  low- 
hanging  central  light  was  burning,  illumining  the 

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orchids  on  the  table.  In  the  dimness  of  a  corner 
she  was  standing  by  the  door  of  a  cabinet  she  had 
opened.  She  stood  facing  him,  awaiting  him,  a  small 
white  object  in  her  hands.  From  its  rounded  sur 
faces  the  hanging  lamp  struck  pale,  pearly  reflections. 
But  as  he  stalked  forward  he  saw  nothing  but  the 
welcome  on  her  lips  and  the  shining  in  her  eyes. 

24 


CHAPTER  XI 

ON  the  following  day,  as  Charlie  Grace  was  leav 
ing  the  building  in  lower  Broadway  in  which  the 
Buffalo  &  New  London  had  its  offices,  he  heard  his 
name. 

"Hello,  Grace!" 

The  voice  was  surly.  The  man  from  whom  it 
came  was  hollow-cheeked  and  hollow-eyed.  Neither 
his  hat  nor  his  overcoat  was  in  its  first  freshness,  and 
he  stood  out  of  the  crowd  that  hurried  between  the 
street  -  door  and  the  lifts  like  one  who  has  been 
thrust  aside.  To  himself  Charlie  Grace  said 
"Damn!"  but  he  too  stepped  out  of  the  current  and 
came  to  a  halt. 

"Hello,  Ellis!"  For  the  minute  it  seemed  all 
there  was  to  say  till  he  forced  himself  to  add,  in  a 
tone  he  tried  to  make  friendly:  "What  you  doing 
here?  Heard  you  were  ill.  Hope  you're  better. 
Suppose  you  are,  or  you  wouldn't  be  about." 

There  was  a  muttered,  inarticulate  reply,  after 
which,  with  an  airy,  casual,  "Well,  so  long!"  Charlie 
Grace  moved  on. 

He  was  too  uneasy  to  be  glad  of  making  his  escape. 
Ellis  would  be  the  first  to  remember  that  the  B.  & 
N.  L.  offices  were  in  that  building,  and  to  put  two 
and  two  together.  The  very  errand  on  which  he, 
Charlie  Grace,  was  in  New  York  was  commonly 
reported  among  people  interested  in  the  T.-C.  R.  to 

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be  of  Ellis's  conception.  Then  there  was  Hilda. 
He  had  additional  reasons  for  being  sensitive  with 
regard  to  Hilda,  and  it  was  possible  that  here  was  a 
chance  of  doing  something  that  would  please  her. 
He  turned  back.  Ellis  was  still  watching  the  hurry 
ing  throng  go  by. 

Charlie  Grace  tried  to  make  his  tone  even  more 
amical.  "Look  here,  old  chap;  I  wonder  if  there's 
anything  I  can  do  for  you  ?" 

The  hollow  eyes  looked  up.  Even  the  sagging 
mustache  seemed  to  bristle.  "Do  for  me?" 

The  light  in  Ellis's  face  might  have  been  one  of 
gratitude.  It  was  difficult  to  tell.  The  would-be 
benefactor  nodded. 

"Do  for  me?"  Ellis  repeated.  "You've  done  for 
me,  damn  you!  And,  by  God!  I'll  do  for  you." 

The  sullen  voice  grew  so  loud  that  the  attention  of 
the  passers-by  was  attracted.  In  order  to  keep  his 
sang-froid  Charlie  Grace  took  on  the  air  of  a  kindly 
fellow  trying  to  deal  with  a  refractory  friend. 

"I  say,  old  chap — "  he  protested,  laying  his  hand 
on  Ellis's  shoulder. 

But  Ellis  jumped  aside.  "Don't  touch  me,  you 
damned  thief,"  he  screamed. 

"Come  and  see  the  fun,"  one  telegraph-boy  yelled 
to  another.  A  little  crowd  collected. 

Ellis  seized  the  opportunity  to  point  a  bony  white 
finger,  and  shout:  "That's  Charles  G.  Grace,  who's 
putting  through  a  damned  sly  job  between  the 
Trans-Canadian  and  the  Buffalo  &  New  London — 
but  he  hasn't  been  damned  sly  enough  for  me.  I've 
dogged  him  like  a  sleuth.  Look  at  him.  Don't  for 
get  his  name.  Every  one  will  know  him  soon  as  the 
damnedest  hound  unhung." 

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For  the  sake  of  the  onlookers  Charlie  Grace  still 
maintained  his  coolness.  :"Sh!  'sh!  old  boy.  Let 
me  get  a  cab  and  take  you  home.  No?  Well, 
some  one  ought  to  do  it."  He  turned  to  those  who 
stood  nearest  him.  "He  won't  let  me — but  he 
ought  to  be  got  home  or  to  a  hospital.  His  name  is 
Ellis,  and  he  lives  in  Brooklyn,  I  think — though  I'm 
not  very  sure.  Used  to  know  him  in  the  Northwest. 
Good  chap  till  he  went  this  way." 

So  he  got  out  of  the  building  into  the  stream  of 
Broadway  without  undue  loss  of  dignity.  The 
sense  of  loss  was  within.  There  the  collapse  of  his 
self-assurance,  of  his  self-respect,  was  such  that  no 
Dutch  courage  of  inward  cursing  could  brace  him 
up  against  it.  His  self-respect,  indeed,  had  been 
gone  since  the  preceding  night;  but  that  was  some 
thing  with  which  he  didn't  immediately  have  to 
deal.  It  was  degrading  to  have  had  an  encounter 
with  Ellis  in  a  public  place,  before  twenty  witnesses 
at  least,  but  even  that  could  be  brushed  aside  as  an 
annoying  detail.  The  menace  was  in  Ellis's  knowl 
edge  of  a  mission  to  which,  in  its  present  stage, 
secrecy  was  the  first  element  of  success.  That  was 
terrifying.  It  might  be  no  more  on  Ellis's  part  than 
guesswork  leading  to  a  bluff;  it  might  be  only  the 
ravings  of  a  man  maddened  to  desperation;  but 
either  possibility  was  dangerous. 

It  was  not  that  Charlie  Grace  had  the  thing  itself 
so  much  at  heart,  though  he  could  see  how — in  case 
"the  deal  were  put  through" — he  should  be  able  to 
"play  the  market"  to  advantage.  What  he  had  at 
heart  was  the  effect  of  the  issue  on  himself.  It  was 
the  most  important  task  with  which  he  had  as  yet 
been  intrusted.  Success  would  place  him  among 

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men  recognized  as  able  in  this  branch  of  affairs. 
Failure  might  not  ruin  him,  but  it  would  certainly 
put  him  back  ten  years,  even  if  it  didn't  thrust  him 
forever  into  the  mass  of  the  useful  second  rate.  It 
would  be  curious  if  Ellis,  of  all  men,  should  become 
the  instrument  of  this  doom.  Hilda  would  say  it 
was  the  working  out  of  a  natural  consequence;  but 
he  had  seen  too  much  of  injury  inflicted  and  never 
avenged  to  believe  in  any  such  law  as  that.  There 
had  been  a  warning  current  when  he  was  a  boy — was 
it  from  the  Bible? — "Be  sure  your  sin  will  find  you 
out";  but  it  was  a  matter  of  the  commonest  experi 
ence  that  your  sin  didn't  find  you  out — that  it  could 
remain  through  life  as  secret  as  the  impulse  that 
committed  it.  From  any  such  Nemesis  as  that  he 
could  reasonably  count  on  immunity;  but  he  was 
afraid  of  Ellis,  none  the  less. 

Among  the  letters  waiting  him  at  the  offices  of 
the  Trans-Canadian  was  one  from  Hilda.  He  thrust 
it  into  his  pocket.  It  was  his  custom  to  read  her 
letters  before  any  others;  but  this  morning  he 
couldn't  do  so.  Sickening  recollections  of  the 
previous  night  combined  with  the  incident  with 
Ellis  to  turn  Hilda  into  an  upbraiding  spirit,  from 
whose  presence  he  shrank.  Before  he  could  look 
at  her  words  he  reported  to  Mr.  Purvis,  consulted 
with  his  colleagues,  and  dictated  to  his  stenographer. 
By  following  his  accustomed  routine  he  got  back 
something  of  his  nerve.  When  he  felt  that  he 
dared,  he  withdrew  into  the  little  room  allotted  to 
his  private  use,  and  broke  Hilda's  seal. 

Her  letter  began  with  details  of  the  domestic  round 
at  home.  It  told  of  drives  and  calls  and  Emma's  kind 
nesses.  Then  its  tone  changed  suddenly.  She  continued: 

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Dearest  Charlie,  I  am  not  very  well.  I  am  not  as  well 
as  I  ought  to  be.  I  have  a  feeling — you  will  think  me 
fanciful — that  I  am  not  going  to  live  through  it — that  I 
shall  die — that  I  may  die  even  before  you  come  home. 
You  say  in  your  last  letter  that  it  will  not  be  long  now 
before  you  return — but  long  and  short  are  words  of  which 
I  seem  to  have  lost  the  meaning.  Even  now  I  feel  that 
you  have  been  away  so  long  as  to  have  become  to  me 
something  like  a  dream.  Oh,  Charlie,  I  never  should 
have  married  you.  We've  both  made  a  mistake.  I  see 
that  now  so  plainly.  I  am  not  the  sort  of  woman  who 
could  ever  make  you  happy,  and  yet  I  have  not  the 
capacity  to  adapt  myself.  I  could  die  for  you — I  some 
times  hope  I  shall  die  for  you — but  I  shall  never  be  able 
to  make  the  slight  changes,  the  small  concessions  to  your 
standards,  you  would  like.  You  and  I  are  so  different — 
and  each  so  incapable  of  crossing  the  gulf  that  separates 
us  from  each  other.  But  what  I  want  to  say  now  is  this 
— that  if  I  do  go  you  must  marry  some  one  whom  you  can 
truly  love.  It  won't  be  enough  to  respect  her.  No 
woman  was  ever  satisfied  with  respect.  I  know  you  have 
respected  me,  and  if  you  haven't  done  more,  dear  Charlie, 
it  is  not  your  fault.  You  mustn't  blame  yourself.  I  am 
not  the  type  of  woman  to  call  forth  the  thing  essential. 
I  lack  something.  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  whatever 
it  is,  I  lack  it.  I  knew  that  before  I  married  you.  Know 
ing  that,  I  should  not  have  married  you.  I  knew  it  was 
wrong  at  the  time — but  so  many  other  considerations 
came  up  that  I  allowed  my  better  judgment  to  be  over 
ruled.  I  think  the  situation  will  right  itself  now;  and  if 
it  does  I  want  you  to  remember  that  I  shall  be  glad  of  it — 
because  it  will  be  a  way  of  making  you  some  amends. 

There  was  more  to  the  same  purport,  but  he 
couldn't  read  it  all  at  once.  His  eyes  smarted. 
Something  in  his  breathing,  too,  came  hardly  and 

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spasmodically.     He    crumpled    the    pages    up,    and 
thrust  them  back  into  his  pocket. 

"If  we've  made  a  mistake,"  he  muttered  to  him 
self,  "and  I  suppose  we  have,  she  shouldn't  be  the 
one  to  suffer.  It  ought  to  be  me.  And  I  am  suffer 
ing.  My  God,  how  I'm  suffering!  I'm  suffering 
from — "  He  tried  to  be  analytical,  and  for  once 
he  succeeded.  "I'm  suffering  from  a  sense  of— 
inner  disgrace." 

That  was  it.  He  was  defiled  within.  Something 
that  was  of  the  very  essence  of  his  nature  was  be 
smirched.  His  immediate  longing  was  to  be  able 
to  plunge  into  some  sort  of  moral  bath — some 
baptism  that  would  wash  away  what  was  otherwise 
indelible.  There  being  no  such  fount,  he  could 
only  sit  down  to  the  realization  of  his  vileness. 

"My  God,  what  a  mess  I've  made  of  it!" 

He  was  not  sure  of  the  actual  cause  of  his  remorse. 
It  couldn't  be  his  disloyalty  to  Hilda,  because— 
well,  because  in  the  back  of  his  mind  he  had  always 
expected  to  be  faithless  to  her  some  time,  and  now 
the  time  had  come.  Neither  could  it  be  his  responsi 
bility  for  Ellis's  break-up,  for  the  reason  that  Ellis 
should  have  taken  care  of  himself.  Neither  was 
it  this  thing  nor  that  thing  nor  another  thing,  for 
which  a  sentimental  conscience  might  have  twinges. 
He  examined  the  charges  categorically,  acquitting 
himself  of  each  in  turn. 

"It's  the  whole  thing,"  he  groaned,  at  last.     "It's 

}> 
— me. 

He  got  up  and  walked  about.  It  was  a  handsome 
little  room,  belonging  to  a  man  named  Stearns — 
now  abroad — with  a  pretty  taste  in  office  furnishings. 
There  were  two  or  three  good  chairs  scattered  about, 

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some  original  racing  prints  on  the  walls,  and  an  old 
Constitution  mirror,  in  which,  as  he  passed,  Charlie 
Grace  got  a  glimpse  of  himself  at  full  length.  There 
was  no  denying  it,  he  was  a  good-looking  fellow. 
He  was  even  an  attractive  fellow.  He  had  his 
father's  fine,  strong  features,  tempered  by  his 
mother's  softnesses.  If  the  mouth,  with  its  thin, 
drooping  lips,  was  stern,  it  was  not  unsympathetic, 
while  all  the  rest  of  the  face  suggested  good-natured 
kindliness. 

And  yet,  within,  he  was  what  he  was.  That  was 
the  curious  part  of  it.  What  a  ridiculous  theory 
it  always  proved  to  be  that  you  could  judge  people 
by  their  faces!  Any  one  who  judged  him  by  his 
face  would  call  him  a  fine,  clean,  strapping  chap, 
incapable  of  a  base  action  or  an  ignoble  thought. 
What  whited  sepulchers  people  were!  There  was 
that  aspect  of  the  matter,  too.  He  was  not  the  only 
one.  He  had  but  to  recall  some  of  the  confidential 
anecdotes  told  by  Hattie  Bright — and  not  by  Hattie 
Bright  alone,  poor  soul! — to  realize  how  few  there 
were  who  lived  up  to  their  reputations.  There  was 
some  comfort  in  that.  There  was,  in  fact,  a  good 
deal  of  comfort  in  it.  Leaving  women  out  of  the 
question,  it  was  beyond  cavil  that  all  men  had  the 
beast  in  them — the  beast  of  prey.  Who  was  he  to 
be  better  than  others  ?  He  might  be  in  the  gutter — 
but  he  wasn't  there  alone. 

Taking  heart  of  grace  from  these  reflections,  he 
sent  a  telegram  to  Emma  begging  of  news  of  Hilda's 
health,  after  which  he  went  again  to  see  Mr.  Purvis. 
He  argued  that  matters  with  the  B.  &  N.  L.  were 
now  at  a  point  at  which,  for  the  present,  they  had 
better  be  left  alone.  The  T.-C.  R.,  having  made  all 

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the  advances,  could  reasonably  wait  for  something 
to  come  from  the  other  side.  Too  great  eagerness 
might  defeat  its  own  ends. 

Mr.  Purvis  being  of  this  opinion,  and  perhaps  not 
unwilling  to  get  rid  of  a  young  man  generally  looked 
upon  as  his  heir  presumptive  in  office,  it  was  agreed 
that  Charlie  Grace  might  reasonably,  for  a  while 
at  any  rate,  return  to  the  West.  The  decision  came 
in  the  nick  of  time,  for  before  his  telegram  could 
have  reached  Emma,  one  arrived  from  her. 

Healthy  boy  born  last  night,  two  months  earlier  than 
expected.  Hilda  weak,  but  not  in  danger.  Come  as 
soon  as  you  conveniently  can. 

Before  leaving  for  home  he  took  the  time  to 
send  a  dozen  Chinese  plates,  which  Heiligmann  the 
expert  had  persuaded  him  to  buy  for  the  new  house, 
to  Hattie  Bright. 

"Poor  little  rat!" 

Charlie  Grace  uttered  these  words  half  aloud,  as, 
four  days  later,  he  sat  by  a  crib  all  ribbons  and  lace 
and  downy  stuff,  and  peered  for  the  first  time  at  his 
child.  He  sat  on  a  small  wooden  chair,  his  body 
bent  forward,  one  foot  thrust  out,  the  other  back 
ward,  his  arm  across  his  knee,  in  a  position  denoting 
eagerness. 

It  denoted  curiosity,  too — curiosity  mingled  with 
sympathy.  In  his  present  state  of  mind  sympathy 
dominated.  He  was  sorry  for  the  wee  mite,  whose 
puckered,  frowning  little  face  seemed  even  as  he 
slept  to  forebode  trouble.  For  was  he  not  a  Grace? 
— of  the  same  blood  and  passions  and  weaknesses 
as  his  father.  Life  could  be  no  great  gift  to  one  who 

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came  trailing  clouds  of  inherited  taint,  from  Charlie 
Grace  himself,  and  from  the  rector  of  St.  David's 
beyond  him,  and  from  the  carpenter  beyond  the 
rector  of  St.  David's,  and  from  the  common  laborer 
beyond  the  carpenter,  and  from  the  Lord  only  knew 
what  beyond  the  common  laborer.  It  was  almost 
like  the  propagation  of  sorrow  to  bring  the  poor  little 
creature  into  the  world.  Charlie  Grace  had  heard 
somewhere  of  a  doctrine  of  original  sin,  and,  though 
he  didn't  know  what  it  meant,  he  was  sure  it  must  be 
founded  in  truth,  since  all  men— again  to  leave  women 
out  of  the  question — were  conceived  and  born  in 
sin,  and  could  never  outlive  the  birthright.  Even  so 
innocent  a  thing  as  this  couldn't  escape  it.  Charlie 
Grace  could  look  back  to  a  time  when  his  own  soul 
was  almost  as  undefiled  as  that  of  this  sleeping  in 
fant;  and  now  he  was — what  he  had  become. 
Where,  then,  was  the  good  of  life?  It  wasn't  as  if 
you  could  dodge  the  universal  destiny.  You  might 
twist  and  double  never  so  swiftly,  but  you  ran  into  it 
at  last — the  infinite  slough,  in  which  you  could  do 
nothing  but  wallow. 

Stooping  more  closely,  he  pulled  away,  carefully, 
tenderly,  an  inch  or  two  of  the  downy  covering  from 
the  little  form.  A  tiny  fist  closed  round  his  finger 
with  tight,  prehensile  grasp.  A  thrill  passed  through 
the  man's  frame  at  the  touch — a  thrill  not  so  much 
of  joy  or  of  pain  as  of  awe.  It  was  as  if  he  felt  the 
next  generation  swinging  itself  off  the  ancestral  tree 
into  futurity.  It  was  but  a  short  time  ago  that  he 
had  so  swung  himself  ofF  from  the  rector  of  St. 
David's,  and  not  so  long  since  the  rector  of  St. 
David's  had  swung  himself  away  from  the  carpenter. 
Still  briefer  would  seem  the  years  before  a  new  genera- 

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tion  still  would  be  springing  from  the  wizened 
epitome  of  the  human  race  snuggled  in  this  cradle, 
and  he,  Charlie  Grace,  would  be  thrust  a  row  farther 
back.  Then  it  would  be  a  row  farther  back  still, 
and  then  a  row  farther  back  still,  till  to  some  Charlie 
Grace  walking  before  long  in  Broadway  he  would  be 
as  dim  as  the  carpenter  and  the  common  laborer 
were  to  him.  Where  were  they  now? — the  carpenter 
and  the  common  laborer.  Where  w'as  the  rector  of 
St.  David's?  Wherever  they  were,  it  was  where  he 
himself  should  be  when  this  child's  children  were 
sinning  and  suffering  as  he  was  sinning  and  suffering 
in  the  year  of  Christ  1901. 

There  was  nothing  novel  in  these  reflections 
unless  it  were  in  the  degree  to  which  they  robbed 
sinning  and  suffering  of  such  value  as  they  had  by 
making  them  fleeting.  Even  the  wrecking  of  Ellis 
and  the  lapse  with  Hattie  Bright,  which  loomed 
largest  on  his  mental  horizon  for  the  moment, 
became  trivial  incidents  in  a  life  so  essentially  futile. 
There  were  plenty  of  such  happenings,  and  worse, 
in  the  long  line  stretched  out  behind  him;  there 
would  be  more  to  come.  This  very  child  would 
grow  up  and  become  guilty  of  them,  and  his  children 
after  him.  It  wasn't  sacrilegious  to  predict  it;  it 
was  only  common  sense.  If,  therefore,  he,  Charlie 
Grace,  had  brought  back  to  his  wife  the  burden  of  a 
worried  conscience,  it  was  really  not  worth  while. 
Such  offenses  as  his  had  been  committed  myriads  of 
times,  and  would  be  committed  myriads  of  times 
again.  Her  own  father  had  probably  committed 
them;  her  own  son  would  do  the  same.  Best  be 
cool  about  it,  then,  and  stoical,  remembering  that  a 
drop  more  or  less  in  the  sea  was  a  negligible  quantity. 


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So,  coolly  and  stoically  he  carried  himself  through 
out  that  spring  and  summer  while  Hilda  regained 
her  strength,  and  married  life  resumed  its  normal 
course.  The  very  normality  of  the  course  tran- 
quilized  matters,  and  kept  them  from  growing 
tragic.  From  Hilda  came  no  repetition  of  the 
statements  she  had  made  in  the  letter  written  before 
the  baby's  birth,  and  from  Charlie  Grace  no  reference 
to  the  fact  that  he  had  ever  read  them.  If  her  words 
had  left  any  impression  behind  them  it  was  in  the 
tacit  assumption  on  both  their  parts — or  what  he 
took  to  be  on  both  their  parts — that  since  ideal 
marriages  do  not  exist  outside  the  pages  of  romance, 
one  could  only  make  the  best  of  the  marriage  one  had 
let  oneself  in  for.  He  used  the  expression  of  him 
self.  He  didn't  blame  Hilda.  He  had  "let  him 
self  in  for"  the  situation  in  which  they  found  them 
selves.  Hilda  had  warned  him  in  advance  that 
what  they  felt  for  each  other  wasn't  love.  She  had 
been  more  skilled  in  her  analysis  than  he — probably 
because  she  was  a  woman.  He,  poor  blundering 
chap,  hadn't  known  the  difference  between  love  and 
intense  admiration.  He  had  admired  Hilda  in 
tensely;  he  admired  her  so  still;  but,  as  she  had  put 
it  in  her  letter,  that  wasn't  the  thing  essential.  He 
saw  that  now. 

And  she  saw  it,  too.  The  real  tragedy  lay  there. 
As  far  as  he  alone  was  concerned  he  could  have 
jogged  along  in  a  loveless  marriage — or  a  marriage 
infused  with  only  a  stinted  degree  of  love — somehow. 
But  it  was  more  difficult  doing  it  for  both.  If  Hilda 
had  only  loved  him  he  was  sure  he  could  have  suc 
cessfully  concealed  from  her  the  fact  that  he  had 
made  a  mistake  on  his  part.  But  she  had  frankly 

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admitted  that  "other  considerations"  had  over 
ruled  her  better  judgment,  leading  to  regrets  of  her 
own.  From  the  thought  of  the  "other  considera 
tions"  his  mind  turned  away  in  delicacy  and  pity. 
Motherless,  homeless,  moneyless,  what  else  could  a 
girl  do  but  turn  to  the  man  who  was  urging  her  to  let 
him  take  care  of  her?  A  woman  was  naturally  para 
sitic.  She  couldn't  help  being  so.  He  disliked  the 
woman  who  wasn't  so.  He  no  more  reproached 
Hilda  for  having  made  him  serve  her  purpose  in  this 
respect  than  he  grudged  the  dozen  Chinese  plates 
to  Hattie  Bright. 

But  the  normal  course  of  life  kept  things  smooth 
by  the  very  force  of  its  normality.  There  was  a 
spell  in  rising  each  day  to  well-served  meals  and 
simple,  dignified  ways  of  living.  The  decorum  of  the 
household  under  Hilda's  management  subordinated 
even  its  master  to  the  system  of  the  whole,  as  the 
discipline  of  an  army  controls  the  general.  Charlie 
Grace  was  himself  too  practised  in  the  art  of  organi 
zation  not  to  perceive  this,  and  to  admire  his  wife 
for  it  the  more.  If,  he  argued,  she  could  accom 
plish  so  much  with  Osborne's  relatively  modest 
establishment  on  Lake  Superior,  what  would  she  not 
do  with  the  rich  resources  of  the  Pavilion  de  Flore? 

As  to  that  elegant  residence,  he  found  himself 
curiously  timid  in  breaking  the  news  to  her.  For 
one  thing,  his  departure  from  New  York  had  been 
so  hurried  that  he  hadn't  brought  the  photographs 
on  which  he  relied  for  convincing  her;  he  hadn't 
even  had  them  taken.  For  another  thing,  more  than 
a  fortnight  passed  before  Hilda  was  able  to  discuss 
such  matters  at  all,  and  by  that  time  his  own  en 
thusiasm  had  cooled  down.  For  a  third  thing, 

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women  were  peculiar  about  domestic  concerns,  and 
had  an  absurd  idea  that  men  knew  nothing  about 
them.  Now  that  Hilda  was  on  her  feet  again,  he 
could  see  more  clearly  than  he  had  realized  as  yet 
that  she  was  the  kind  of  born  mistress  of  the  house 
who  would  have  decided  opinions  as  to  the  details 
under  her  direction.  He  had  no  doubt  about  her 
liking  the  Pavilion  de  Flore  once  she  saw  it — who 
could  help  liking  a  thing  that,  as  he  said  to  himself, 
so  clearly  "looked  its  price"? — he  only  feared  that 
were  he  to  tell  her  too  abruptly  that  this  beautiful 
home  was  hers,  she  might  think  he  had  ignored  her 
rights  in  her  own  domain. 

There  was  one  other  consideration— one  that  he 
felt  without  being  able,  without  being  willing  per 
haps,  to  put  it  into  words.  It  was  difficult  to  tell 
Hilda  about  the  Pavilion  de  Flore  for  the  reason 
that  in  his  memory  the  house  was  connected  with 
two  other  women  more  closely  than  with  her. 
Indirectly,  it  was  through  Esther  Legrand  that  he 
had  acquired  it;  through  Hattie  Bright  that  he  had 
partially  furnished  it.  The  shadows  of  these  two — 
now  one  and  now  the  other — seemed  to  get  between 
Hilda  and  him  every  time  he  tried  to  bring  the  sub 
ject  up. 

Nevertheless,  there  came  a  day  in  which  he  forced 
the  topic  boldly. 

"There's  a  house  I  should  like  you  to  look  at  in 
East  Seventy-fifth  Street." 

They  had  been  talking  of  houses — or  rather,  he 
had  been  doing  so — and  of  the  best  part  of  New 
York  in  which  to  live. 

"Very  well.     Have  you  seen  it  yourself?" 

"I've — I've  gone  over  it." 
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"If  you  like  it- 

"I   did   like  it — immensely." 

"Then  I  should  probably  like  it,  too.  Don't  you 
think  his  nose  is  really  a  little  bigger?  It's  so  like 
a  grain  of  Indian  corn.  Don't  you  think  it's  like 
a  grain  of  Indian  corn?" 

Having  answered  this  question  in  the  affirmative 
a  good  many  times  during  the  past  three  months, 
Charlie  Grace  felt  justified  in  regarding  it  now  as 
intrusive.  While  Hilda  kissed  the  grain  of  Indian 
corn  he  himself  puffed  silently  at  his  cigar  as  he 
followed  with  his  eyes  the  course  of  an  ore-boat — 
a  long  black  streak  on  the  water,  with  the  funnel 
at  the  stern— rounding  the  curve  coming  down 
from  the  Canadian  shore.  They  sat  on  the  veranda 
at  the  head  of  the  green  lawn,  which  sloped  down 
to  the  lake  through  clumps  of  white  and  red  roses. 

"It's  what  they  call  a  little  Fran£ois  Premier 
hotel"  he  said,  when  he  judged  it  judicious  to  go 
on  with  the  theme. 

Hilda  raised  her  head  from  contemplating  the 
baby.  "What  is?  Oh,  the  house  you  were  speaking 
of.  Isn't  that  rather  artificial  in  New  York?" 

"I  don't  think  so.  They're  very  Frenchy  in 
their  taste — in  the  streets  up  there." 

"Oh,  I  know  they  are.  But  doesn't  it  seem  to 
you  rather  ridiculous?  French  architecture  belongs 
so  essentially  to  the  soil  of  France.  Transplanted 
to  New  York  it's  as  incongruous  as  a  man  wearing 
a  papal  tiara  would  be  in  Wall  Street.  Does  he 
want  to  kick  his  little  feet,  then,  the  darling?" 

Charlie  Grace  could  only  say,  with  what  he  hoped 
was  confidence:  "Well,  wait  and  see." 

So  Hilda  waited  and  saw.  She  waited  through 
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the  summer,  and  saw  on  a  morning  late  in  October, 
when  they  had  been  twenty-four  hours  in  the  hotel 
in  New  York.  Her  husband  had  curbed  his  im 
patience  to  take  her  to  the  new  house  on  the  first  day, 
fearing  the  fatigue  incidental  to  the  long  journey 
might  render  her  out  of  sorts,  and  adverse  in  her 
opinion.  After  the  conversation  on  the  veranda  at 
Minnesaba  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it 
would  be  diplomatic  on  his  part  to  let  the  selection 
seem  to  come  from  her.  He  was  canny,  too.  He 
purposely  took  her  to  two  or  three  houses  which  he 
knew  in  advance  would  displease  her  before  ordering 
the  cabman  to  drive  to  the  Pavilion  de  Flore. 

"This  is  the  one  I  spoke  of,"  he  tried  to  say 
casually.  "Shall  we  go  in?  Or  are  you  too  tired?" 

"I  am  tired;  but  since  we're  here  we  might  as 
well  go  in."  She  glanced  up  at  the  facade.  "C'est 
gentily"  she  admitted. 

They  entered.  She  looked  round  the  hall  critically. 
Charlie  Grace's  heart  was  thumping.  He  loved 
this  house,  and  was  proud  of  it. 

"There  seem  to  be  things  in  it,"  Hilda  said. 

"There — there  are,"  he  admitted.  "In  fact, 
it's — it's  partly  furnished." 

"They  wouldn't  expect  us  to  take  the  furniture, 
I  suppose." 

"Not  unless  you  liked  it,"  he  found  himself  able 
to  say. 

"We  shouldn't  want  that." 

She  pointed  with  her  parasol  to  a  marble  hall 
table,  with  carved  griffins  as  legs.  He  had  bought 
it  at  the  Art  and  Auction  Gallery,  feeling  sure  of  the 
good  taste  of  his  purchase,  since  there  was  a  pre 
cisely  similar  table  in  the  Waldorf.  He  hastened, 

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however,   to   agree  with   her.     "No;  we   shouldn't 
want  that." 

They  passed  into  the  dining-room.  Again  she 
looked  about  her  silently. 

"It  isn't  a  bad  room,"  she  remarked  at  last; 
"but — how  funny!" 

"What's    funny?"    he   questioned,    timorously. 

"Well,  these  things — this  heavy  Jacobean  table 
and  these  gimcrack  Chippendale  chairs.  The  table 
is  a  good  one  —  for  a  baronial  hall  or  a  monks' 
refectory — but  the  chairs  are  cheap  modern  repro 
ductions.  They  must  have  been  awfully  queer 
people  who  lived  here." 

He  would  have  told  her  that  no  one  had  lived 
there  as  yet  had  she  not  crossed  the  room  to  examine 
the  butler's  pantry  and  its  connection  with  the 
kitchen.  "This  is  awful,"  he  heard  her  say. 

In  reply  to  another  timid  inquiry  on  his  part  she 
explained  the  details  in  which  the  awfulness  lay. 
It  lay  in  the  situation  of  the  kitchen,  in  the  distance 
of  the  kitchen  from  the  pantry,  in  the  distance  of 
the  pantry  from  the  dining-room,  in  the  impossibility 
of  keeping  dishes  hot  in  traversing  such  spaces,  in 
the  number  of  steps  for  the  servants,  and  in  much 
more  that  seemed  to  him  irrelevant  and  hyper 
critical. 

They  went  up-stairs.  He  pointed  out  the  fine 
sweep  of  the  balustrade  while  she  remarked  that  the 
stair  itself  was  fatiguing.  She  acknowledged  that 
the  drawing-room  and  library  were  good,  "but,"  she 
added,  "I  never  saw  such  a  house.  It's  like  a  shop. 
No  two  things  in  it  go  together.  Some  of  the  things 
are  good,  and  others  are  trash.  I  can't  imagine  what 
sort  of  person  could  have  collected  them." 
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He  had  himself  sufficiently  in  hand  to  say,  "We 
could  get  rid  of  the  stuff,  so  long  as  you  like  the 
house." 

>  They  went  up  the  second  flight  of  stairs.  Here 
there  was  little  in  the  way  of  Charlie  Grace's  pur 
chases,  so  that  the  inspection  was  soon  made. 

"Is  this  all?"  Hilda  asked,  when  they  had  passed 
through  the  bedrooms. 

"There  are  the  servants'  rooms  in  the  attic. 
Should  you  like  to  see  them?" 

She  answered,  decisively:  "No;  because  this  house 
won't  do." 

Perhaps  his  crestfallen  look  betrayed  him,  though 
not  immediately.  "Won't  do?  Why  won't  it  do?" 

She  laughed.  "Why,  just  see!  There's  that  room 
for  you,  and  that  one  for  me,  and  that  one  for  baby. 
Not  another  spot  on  this  floor." 

"But  isn't  that  enough?" 

"Where's  the  day-nursery? — and  the  guestroom? 
— or  a  bit  of  extra  space  anywhere  ?  There's  nowhere 
to  live — or  to  put  anything.  And  baby's  room 
wouldn't  get  a  ray  of  sun."  She  turned  to  go  down 
the  stairs.  "I  can't  imagine,"  she  continued,  in 
descending,  "who  could  have  wanted  such  a  house 
in  the  first  place.  For  mercy's  sake,  who  does  it 
belong  to?" 

He  pretended  to  be  looking  at  something  on  the 
stairs  and  to  be  speaking  absently  as  he  said,  'Tt 
belongs  to  a  man  who  bought  it  ...  because  he 
thought  his  wife  .  .  .  would  like  it.  ...  But  she 
didn't  .  .  .  which  is  the  reason  why  .  .  .  it's  for 
sale  .  .  .  again." 

"I  can  understand  that,"  she  said,  reaching  the 
drawing  -  room  floor  and  looking  about  her  the 

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second  time.  "No,"  she  went  on,  with  conviction; 
"it's  just  as  I  said.  There's  nowhere  to  live. 
There's  not  a  spot  in  the  whole  house  where  you  can 
fancy  yourself  sitting  down." 

About  ten  o'clock  that  night  Charlie  Grace  came 
back  to  the  hotel  from  walking  in  the  dusty  coolness 
of  Fifth  Avenue.  He  had  gone  out  not  merely  to 
get  the  air,  but  to  produce  something  like  order  in 
his  thoughts.  He  wanted  to  detach  Hilda  from  the 
foolish  business  of  the  house,  and  frankly  to  own 
that  it  was  a  matter  in  which  he  had  been  stupid. 
To  reach  this  conclusion  was  no  easy  thing;  for  he 
still  believed  the  house  to  be  a  beautiful  house,  full 
of  beautiful  things.  It  was  inconceivable  to  him 
that  Hilda  couldn't  see  it.  He  could  only  attribute 
her  dwelling  on  such  trifles  as  the  kitchen  arrange 
ments  and  the  lack  of  sunshine,  and  ignoring  the  fact 
that  no  one  could  enter  that  house  without  thinking 
it  had  cost  twice  its  value,  to  the  circumstance  of  her 
being  a  woman.  Who  would  ever  know  that  the 
servants  had  to  walk  half  a  mile,  as  Hilda  said,  in 
her  exaggerated  woman's  way,  every  time  they  con 
veyed  a  slice  of  toast  to  the  breakfast-table?  And 
as  for  sunshine  in  the  baby's  room,  how  was  a  mite 
like  that  to  care  whether  he  had  sunshine  in  his  room 
or  not?  Then  there  was  this  talk  of  things  not  go 
ing  together! — of  Jacobean  tables  and  Chippendale 
chairs! — as  if  any  one  would  ever  notice  that!  A 
chair  was  a  chair  and  a  table  was  a  table.  If  you 
had  them  handsome  and  strong  and  expensive,  who 
was  to  ask  whether  they  came  from  baronial  halls 
or  Grand  Rapids,  Michigan?  That  was  the  worst 
of  living  so  long  in  Europe,  as  well  as  of  being  a 

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woman,  that  you  got  finicky  over  trifles  while  you 
ignored  the  essential. 

Hilda  had  stabbed  him  in  his  little  vanities,  she 
had  wounded  him  in  his  pride  as  the  builder  of  a 
home,  and  yet,  as  the  day  wore  on  to  evening,  he 
tried  to  do  her  justice.  The  situation  was  one  of  his 
own  making.  He  had  been  crass  about  it  from  the 
first.  Without  being  driven  to  confess  that  his 
judgment  had  been  vitally  defective,  he  could  see 
that  he  had  bungled  the  whole  thing  and  led  Hilda 
into  a  trap.  It  was  a  trap  in  which  he  himself 
was  taken  in  all  sorts  of  ways;  but  that  was  not  her 
fault.  In  the  first  phase  of  his  annoyance  he  had 
declared  to  himself  that  it  was  her  fault — that  she 
was  perversely  slighting  his  taste;  but  he  had  been 
obliged  to  revise  so  hasty  an  opinion  as  that.  The 
truth  was  that  his  taste  was  good  enough;  only 
between  his  likings  and  Hilda's  there  were  radical 
and  irreconcilable  differences.  It  was  one  more  in 
dication  of  their  common  mistake  in  thinking  they 
could  live  together. 

And  yet  they  must  live  together.  There  was  no 
question  as  to  that.  They  must  live  together,  and 
he  must  make  such  concessions — without  saying 
anything  about  it— as  would  make  life  not  only 
tolerable,  but  as  nearly  happy  as  might  be.  He 
came  back  to  the  hotel  with  the  intention  of  telling 
Hilda  that  perhaps,  with  the  aid  of  her  friend  Mrs. 
Meredith,  she  might  be  able  to  find  a  house  to  suit 
herself.  If  so,  he  would  subscribe  to  her  choice, 
whatever  the  style  or  the  situation,  of  their  future 
home.  That  would  mean,  on  his  part,  an  act  of 
mental  abdication. 

On  entering  the  sitting-room  he  found  her  in  her 

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favorite  corner  overlooking  the  crossing  of  Fifth 
Avenue  and  Thirty-third  Street,  with  a  view  of  the 
long  lines  of  lights.  It  was  the  suite  of  rooms  they 
had  occupied  on  their  last  visit  to  New  York,  en 
larged  now  so  as  to  take  in  the  baby.  Only  the 
green-shaded  lamp  was  lighted.  The  window  beside 
which  Hilda  sat  was  open,  the  curtains  blowing 
gently  in  the  night  breeze. 

He  had  scarcely  taken  off  his  hat  when  Hilda  said, 
"Charlie,  was  the  man  who  bought  that  house  be 
cause  he  thought  his  wife  would  like  it  you  ?" 

He  stood  dumbfounded,  just  inside  the  door,  his 
hat  still  in  his  hand.  "Why  on  earth  should  you 
think  that?"  he  managed  to  say  at  last. 

"Oh,  for  all  sorts  of  reasons— little  things  I  no 
ticed  without  thinking  of  them  at  the  time — and 
other  things — since  then.  I've  been  going  all  over 
them — and  putting  them  together — and  things  you 
hinted  at  as  long  ago  as  in  the  summer — in  the  West." 

He  tried  to  laugh.  "And  you've  come  to  this 
wonderful  conclusion?  All  I  can  say,  dear,  is  that 
you'd  better  try  again." 

Throwing  his  hat  on  a  sofa,  he  went  toward  his 
bedroom  door,  but  she  called  him.  "Don't  go 
away,  Charlie.  Come  here.  Sit  down.  Let  us 
talk." 

He  threw  himself  comfortably  on  the  window-seat, 
where  the  wind  blew  through  his  hair.  "I  was  just 
going  to  tell  you,"  he  began,  "that  if  you  could 
get  Mrs.  Meredith  to  help  you  find  a  house— 

"No;  let  me  speak.  If  you  have  bought  that 
house,  Charlie,  thinking  I  might  like  it — I  do  like 
it." 

He  was  too  sore  at  heart  to  accept  this  magnanim- 
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ity.  "I'm  sorry  for  that,  because  we're  not  going 
to  live  in  it.  You're  to  have  the  house  that  suits 
you,  and  no  other." 

"But  the  house  that  suits  me  better  than  any 
other  is  the  one  you've  selected.  It  must  suit  me 
better  than  any  other  for  the  very  reason  that  you've 
selected  it.  Don't  you  see  that?" 

"H'm!  I  can't  say  that  I  do.  This  morning 
you—" 

"Don't  you  think  that  this  morning  you  took  me 
at  a  rather  unfair  advantage? — perhaps  a  rather 
unkind  advantage?" 

"I  didn't  mean  it  to  be  unkind,  or  unfair,  either. 
I  wanted  you  to  express  yourself  frankly — " 

"I  still  don't  think  it  was  the  way  to  make  me 
do  it.  But  since  I've  done  it,  I  want  you  to  see 
that  all  such  judgments  as  that  must  be  necessarily 
superficial.  If  you've  really  bought  the  house — " 

"I've  not  said  so." 

"No;  but  if  you  have,  I  can  see  how  we  could 
make  it  do.  I've  been  going  over  the  accommoda 
tions— 

"But  I  don't  want  you  to  have  a  house  that  will 
only — do.  I  want  you — ': 

"Isn't  it  our  first  duty  to  be  sensible?  If  you've 
bought  this  house  you've  probably  spent  a  lot  of 
money  on  it — money  that  we  shouldn't  throw  away. 
We  ought  to  live  in  it — and  make  the  best  of  it." 

"Oh,  I  could  get  rid  of  it." 

She  ignored  the  admission  contained  in  these 
words,  going  on  to  say:  "You  couldn't  get  rid  of 
it  very  easily.  It  was  probably  in  the  market  a 
good  while  before  you  took  it." 

He  admitted  that  this  was  so. 
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"It's  a  man's  house,"  she  went  on.  "A  man 
must  have  planned  it  and  furnished  it.  No  woman 
would  have  been  satisfied  with  two  or  three  great 
big  inconvenient  rooms — and  nothing  else.  No 
woman  could  have  filled  them  with  such  an  extra 
ordinary  lot  of  odds  and  ends,  either."  It  must 
have  been  the  look  in  his  eyes  that  startled  her,  for 
she  exclaimed  at  once:  "Oh,  Charlie!  You  didn't 
do  that,  too,  did  you?" 

He  raised  himself  from  his  lounging  .position, 
thrust  his  hands  into  his  trousers  pockets,  stretched 
out  his  legs,  and  laughed.  Perhaps  he  laughed  a 
little  too  loudly,  being  determined  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  the  thing  once  for  all.  "You've  struck 
it.  I'm  the  culprit.  I  got  most  of  the  things  as 
bargains  at  Henderson's  Art  and  Auction  Gallery. 
You  needn't  hesitate  to  sweep  the  lot  of  'em  out." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  "Oh,  there'll  be  no 
need  of  that,"  she  said,  with  forced  assurance. 
"We  can  make  them  do,  too — or  most  of  them — 
since  they're  your  choice.  It  will  only  need  a  little 
— contrivance.  And  as  for  the  rooms,  a  good 
architect  could  remedy  most  of  the  trouble,  and 
probably  give  us  a  little  more  space." 

He  began  to  take  courage.  "Oh,  Coningsby 
said  we  should  have  to  make  some  alteration.  I 
allowed  for  that." 

He  thought  she  straightened  herself.  "Who  said 
so?" 

"A  young  fellow  named  Coningsby  —  chap  you 
don't  know.  I  really  got  hold  of  the  place  through 
him.  He  had  the  disposal  of  it,  and — " 

"And  you  took  it  off  his  hands." 

"Not  that,  exactly,  but  I— 
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"Is  his  name  Ralph  Coningsby?  Is  he  the  Con- 
ingsby  who  Emma  says  is  so  attentive  to — ?" 

He  too  straightened  himself,  throwing  up  his 
chin.  Since  so  much  had  come  out,  he  was  ready 
to  tell  the  whole  story.  "To  Esther  Legrand. 
Yes." 

There  was  a  pause  and  a  stillness.  "So  you 
really  got  it — through  them." 

He  took  on  an  air  of  surprise.  "  I  don't  know  what 
you  mean  by — through  them.  I  got  it  through — " 

"Through  her,  then.  I  supposed  it  was  your 
own  discovery — 

"So  it  was.  They — or  she — or  whatever  the 
pronoun  you  like  to  use — had  nothing  to  do  with  it 
beyond  the  initial  suggestion.  I  should  never  have 
taken  the  place  if  I  hadn't  thought  it  was  the  sort 
of  thing  you'd  like.  Since  it  isn't,  I  should  greatly 
prefer — 

"To  do  something  else.  But  I  shouldn't."  She 
leaned  forward,  and  surprised  him  by  seizing  his 
hand.  "Don't  you  see? — that's  my  point — that 
whatever  you  do,  I  want  to  accept  it  and  make  the 
best  of  it.  I  don't  want  to  do  it  just  grimly  and 
stoically — but,  since  we  must  work  out  our  lives 
together — " 

He  was  afraid  she  was  going  to  refer  to  the  sub 
jects  touched  on  in  the  letter  she  had  written  him 
before  the  baby's  birth,  and  so  hastened  to  say: 
"Yes;  I  know  what  you  mean.  But  if  there's  any 
making  the  best  of  things  to  be  done  it  ought  to 
be  by  me." 

"I  don't  see  that.  If  you've  made  a  mistake — 
if  we've  made  a  mistake — we  must  stand  by  each 
other  loyally— 

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He  drew  her  to  him,  almost  lifting  her  from  her 
chair.  She  crouched  beside  him  on  the  window- 
seat,  his  arm  about  her.  "I'll  do  the  standing 
by,  darling,"  he  whispered,  brokenly.  "I  don't 
want  you  to  be  worried  by  that.  ...  If  we've  made 
a  mistake,  it's  been  mine  more  than  yours.  .  .  . 
In  fact,  it  never  was  yours  at  all.  .  .  .  You  saw 
how  things  were  from  the  beginning.  .  .  .  You 
warned  me.  .  .  .  You  said  it  was  wrong.  .  .  .  But 
what  were  we  to  do?  ...  Who  was  there  to  take 
care  of  you  ?  .  .  .  And  I  do  love  you,  Hilda,  darling 
— in  my  way.  ...  I  want  to  take  all  the  responsi 
bility  on  myself.  ...  So  please  don't  speak  about 
it  again.  .  .  .  Don't  write  to  me  about  it,  either.  ..." 

She  drew  herself  slowly  away,  looking  up  at  him 
with  head  thrown  back,  while  his  arm  was  still  about 
her  waist.  "Charlie,  what  are  you  talking  about? 
Is  it  about — the  house?" 

He  was  puzzled.  "Why,  no.  I'm  talking  about 
— what  you're  talking  about — what  you  wrote  about." 

She  detached  herself  altogether,  speaking  with 
more  astonishment.  "  What  I  wrote  about  ?  When  ?" 

"Before  baby  was  born — the  last  letter  I  had 
from  you — " 

"Oh — that!"  She  stood  up,  moving  away  from  him 
toward  the  center  of  the  room.  "I  don't  remember 
very  clearly  what  I  said  in  it.  I  know  I  wrote  it  one 
evening  when  I  was  overwrought.  I  think  I  said 
that  I  shouldn't  have  married  you — " 

It  was  to  justify  himself  that  he  explained:  "You 
said  something  about — about  a  mistake — as  you've 
said  just  now.  But  if  you  didn't  mean  it — " 

Her  voice  was  cold.  "You're  willing  to  let  me 
take  it  back.  Is  that  it?" 

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He  tried  to  recapture  his  position.  "No.  I'm 
only  asking  you  not  to  say  it  again." 

"Because  it  can  go  without  saying.  I  think  that's 
what  you  mean,  isn't  it?" 

"Not  in  the  slightest." 

She  pressed  a  button  turning  on  the  central 
cluster  of  lights.  ''Then  why  do  you  speak  of  no 
blame  being  attached  to  me? — of  what  were  we  to 
do? — of  taking  the  responsibility  on  yourself?" 

"For  the  simple  reason  that  I  thought  you  were 
repeating  what  you  had  already  written — ; 

"But  I  was  talking  of  the  house." 

"Yes;  so  I  see.  But  I  thought  you  meant — the 
other  thing." 

She  stood  with  hands  folded  and  eyes  down 
cast.  "Then,  suppose  we  make  it  —  the  other 
thing." 

"I  don't  see  the  good  of  that,  since  you  didn't 
mean  it." 

"But  I  see  the  ppod  of  it— since  you  do  mean  it." 

He  got  up  and  went  toward  her.  "Oh,  come  now, 
Hilda- 
She  backed  away  from  him  to  the  wall,  pressing  an 
other  button  and  turning  on  the  lights  around  the 
sides  of  the  room.  In  the  hard  glare  her  eyes  shot 
out  the  lambent  flames  he  had  already  seen  in  them. 
She  stood  very  erect  and  still.  "Why  not  face 
the  fact,  Charlie?  We've  made  a  mistake.  I  said 
so  in  my  letter,  didn't  I? — and  you  accepted  it. 
No;  don't  say  you  didn't.  You  couldn't  have 
blundered  on  as  you've  been  doing  now  unless 
you'd  been  convinced  of  it  in  your  heart." 

"That's  not  fair,  Hilda.  I  wasn't  convinced  of  it 
in  my  heart.  I  only  thought  that  as  you'd  laid  such 

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stress  on  it — there  might  be  something  in  it.  That's 
all." 

She  laughed  hardly.  " That's  all!  As  if  it  were 
not  enough.  But  you're  quite  right.  There  is 
something  in  it.  There's  everything  in  it.  We've 
made  a  mistake— and  we're  sorry  for  it." 

"I'm  not  sorry  for  it." 

She  seemed  to  concentrate  all  her  forces  to  utter 
the  two  words,  "I  am." 

He  started.  "For  God's  sake,  don't  say  that, 
Hilda,  if  it  isn't  true." 

"It  is  true.  You  make  it  true.  How  can  I  not 
be  sorry  for  a  mistake  you're  ready  to  recognize  so 
promptly?" 

"But  I'm  not.  I  don't  recognize  it.  I  love  you, 
Hilda." 

She  smiled,  the  bitter-sweet  smile  he  had  come  to 
know.  "Yes,  Charlie;  I  think  you  do  love  me — 
with  a  divided  heart.  Of  what  you  have  to  give,  you 
do  give  me — something.  I  admit  that.  And  when 
I  do  you  justice  I  think  you  might  try  to  do  me 
justice  in  return.  You  might  try  to  understand  how 
hard  it  is  for  a  woman  like  me— a  proud  woman — an 
exacting  woman — yes,  I  know  I'm  exacting — to  have 
to  see  at  every  turn  that  she's  sharing  her  husband's 
heart  with  some  one  else." 

"Oh,  nonsense,  Hilda — " 

"It  isn't  nonsense.  It  isn't  imagination  or  mor 
bidness  or  any  of  the  foolish  fancies  these  things  are 
so  often  declared  to  be.  I  know,  Charlie.  I  know 
as  well  as  if  I  was  with  you  every  hour  of  the  day 
and  entered  into  all  your  thoughts.  Look  me  in  the 
eyes  and  answer  me.  Tell  me  if  it  isn't  so.  Even 
in  so  intimate  a  matter  as  our  new  house,  our  home, 

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isn't  it  true  that  another  woman  is  connected  with 
it  in  your  thoughts  before  I  am — perhaps  more 
women  than  one?  Answer  me.  Look  me  in  the 
eyes." 

He  looked  her  in  the  eyes,  bracing  his  strength  for 
a  reply  of  some  sort,  when  suddenly  he  found  himself 
asking,  inwardly:  "What's  the  use?"  No  words 
of  his  could  dispel  her  conviction.  It  would  be  lost 
labor  to  try. 

He  wheeled  abruptly  from  her,  stalking  to  the 
corner  window,  where,  with  his  hands  behind  his 
back,  he  stood  looking  down  on  the  street.  It  was 
not  difficult  to  see  that  in  her  reference  to  the  house 
her  bow  had  been  drawn  more  or  less  at  a  venture; 
and  yet  he  had  been  hit  so  accurately  that  it  revolted 
him  to  attempt  a  defense.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he 
could  think  of  no  defense  other  than  blank  denial. 
He  had  been  struck  dumb.  He  felt  stupefied, 
vacuous.  It  was  into  a  totally  empty  mind  that 
the  words  glided  like  a  gibe,  "Be  sure  your  sin  will 
find  you  out." 

"Oh,  pshaw!"  he  muttered  impatiently,  and 
turned.  He  must  say  something  to  Hilda,  no  matter 
what.  The  subject  couldn't  be  dropped  there. 

"And  if  things  between  us  are  as  you  say — what 
would  be  your  solution?" 

There  was  no  reply.  The  room  was  empty.  She 
had  slipped  away  in  silence,  leaving  the  lights 
flaring  uselessly. 


BOOK    III 


CHAPTER  I 

IN  the  spring  of  1906  Charlie  Grace  began  to 
perceive  that  the  unhappiness  of  his  married 
life  was  a  matter  of  common  knowledge  among  his 
friends.  The  first  inkling  of  this  fact  came  to  him 
during  the  dinner  given  by  Miss  Hornblower  in 
honor  of  the  visit  of  Sir  Osborne  and  Lady  Tomlinson 
coming  from  Montreal.  The  festivity  being  to  some 
extent  a  reunion  of  old  parishioners  of  St.  David's, 
Charlie  Grace  found  himself  seated  between  Mrs. 
Furnival  and  Mrs.  Legrand.  The  conversation  of 
the  latter  directed  his  mind  toward  a  region  of  new 
thoughts. 

"It's  not  that  I'm  criticizing  my  husband,"  she  was 
saying.  "I'm  too  good  a  wife  to  seek  anything  but 
his  highest  interests,  don't  you  know  I  am?  But 
no  one  can  have  been  married  into  the  Church  as 
long  as  I've  been  without  seeing  that  it's  frightfully 
narrowing.  If  Rufus  had  been  in  another  profession 
he'd  have  been  as  broad-minded  as  any  one.  As  it 
is,  he's  cramped — and  oh,  so  mistaken!  I  follow 
him  as  far  as  I  can;  but  when  a  woman  has  such 
liberal  views  as  I  have  they  can't  subscribe  to  every 
thing,  now  can  they?  And  as  for  this  going  on 
committees  against  divorce  and  trying  to  put  it 
down,  to  my  mind  it's  all  wrong.  What  do  you 
think?" 

With  a  challenging  little  smile  she  held  her  head 
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to  one  side  in  an  attitude  compelling  a  still  youthful 
archness  to  struggle  with  the  encumbrance  of  a  triple 
chin.  His  reply  indicated  sympathy  with  modern 
views  on  the  subject  of  marriage,  though  he  re 
gretted  the  confusion  of  the  laws. 

"Oh,  I  don't  care  anything  about  the  laws,"  the 
lady  declared,  daringly.  "It's  the  thing.  And 
where  a  man  and  woman  are  unhappy  together  I 
don't  see  any  use  in  forcing  them  to  keep  it  up.  Do 
you?" 

Though  he  knew  the  topic  came  near  home,  he 
did  not  at  once  suspect  his  friend  of  speaking  with 
a  motive.  "To  force  them  to  keep  it  up  is  one 
thing;  and  for  them  to  try  to  make  the  best  of  what 
they've  let  themselves  in  for  is  another." 

"Oh,  but  when  they  have  tried — and  failed? 
When  they've  tried,  and  tried,  and  still  don't  suit 
each  other?  Don't  you  think  it's  pitiful  then  to  see 
two  human  beings  wasting  their  youth — and  the 
years  that  might  be  happy — in  an  effort  that  will 
never  come  to  anything?" 

He  acknowledged  that  it  might  be. 

"And  I've  known  so  many  cases  just  like  that — 
so  many  cases  where,  I  know,  Mr.  Legrand  has 
advised  them  to  keep  together,  but  if  they'd  con 
sulted  me  I  should  have  told  them  to  move  apart. 
Here  you  are,  I  should  have  said,  both  young,  both 
of  good  principles,  both  fitted  for  great  happiness 
with  some  one  else — but  utterly  and  hopelessly  un- 
suited  to  each  other,  I  should  have  said.  What  law 
is  there  of  God  or  man  that  can  compel  you  to  be 
wretched,  when  you  might  find  some  one  else,  and 
begin  all  over  again?  I  should  have  said  that. 
You  see,  I'm  very  broad.  I've  been  through  so 

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much  that  I  understand  the  world  as  my  husband 
can't.  A  clergyman  knows  so  little  of  actual  life, 
don't  you  know  he  doesn't?  He's  in  his  study — 
he's  removed — he  hasn't  got  to  deal  with  vital 
things  like  you  and  I  do.  I  make  allowances  for 
Rufus.  He's  all  theory.  He  see  so  little  of  the 
practical  side  of  life.  I  come  in  between  that  and 
him.  I  shelter  him.  Oh,  I  don't  take  any  credit 
to  myself.  It's  my  duty.  It's  what  I  made  up 
my  mind  to — partly — when  I  married  into  the 
Church.  And  yet  I'm  not  sure  if  it  isn't  a  mistake 
in  some  ways.  What  do  you  think?  There's  such 
a  thing  as  sheltering  a  husband  too  much — especially 
when  he's  a  clergyman.  If  Rufus  only  had  some 
experience  of  divorce  himself  he'd  broaden  out." 

Charlie  Grace  smiled.  "He's  not  likely  to  get 
that,  with  such  a  wife  as  you,  Mrs.  Legrand." 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  it  in  that  way.  But  if 
some  one — well,  some  one  near  and  dear  to  him  were 
to — well,  come  in  contact  with  it — then  Rufus  would 
see  it  as  a  practical  thing." 

"But  there  is  no  one  near  and  dear  to  him  but 
you — and  Esther." 

Mrs.  Legrand  hestitated,  preened  herself,  and  said 
boldly:  "Well,  if  it  was  Esther — he'd  think  dif 
ferently.  If  she  were  tied  to  some  one  with  whom 
she  was  unhappy — or  if  she  were  to  fall  in  love  with 
a  man  who'd  been — well,  who'd  been — let  us  say 
released — from  some  one  with  whom  hed  been  un 
happy — that  would  bring  the  matter  home  to  Rufus, 
don't  you  know  it  would?" 

His  eyes  wandered  down  the  table  to  where  Miss 
Legrand,  seated  between  Ralph  Coningsby  and  Dr. 
Freddy  Furnival,  was  talking  with  animation,  now 
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to  the  one,  now  to  the  other,  and  now  to  both. 
"She  doesn't  look  as  if  either  fate  were  in  store  for 
her,  just  at  present." 

Mrs.  Legrand  sighed.  "Poor  darling!  She  has 
her  troubles.  And  she's  so  brave." 

"I  suppose,"  he  ventured,  "that  one  of  her 
troubles  isn't — on  her  left?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no.  Ralph  is  no  more  to  her  than  a 
nice  boy.  Not  that  he  is  a  boy  at  his  age — but  he 
seems  like  it.  She  doesn't  care  for  him  in  that  way 
at  all;  and  if  she  did,  Mr.  Legrand  and  I  could  never 
consent  to  it.  He  barely  makes  a  living;  and  he  has 
no  expectations."  The  pause  preceding  her  next 
words  gave  them  significance.  "And  yet  I  often 
wish  that  it  was  he."  A  second  pause  heightened 
the  effect.  "It  would  be  simpler." 

He  was  about  to  ask  the  question  "Simpler  in 
what  way?"  when  he  caught  her  eye.  He  had 
never  noticed  before  what  a  cold,  hard  eye  it  was. 
Now  that  he  made  the  observation  he  could  see  that 
it  had  always  been  cold  and  hard,  even  when  it  had 
been  the  light  of  a  silly,  simpering  face. 

Before  he  could  collect  his  wits  to  analyze  her 
hints  Mrs.  Furnival  turned  to  say:  "So  sorry  Mrs. 
Grace  isn't  here.  And  how  is  she?" 

He  explained  that  the  mild  spring  weather  had 
tempted  Hilda  to  take  the  children  to  their  little 
place  on  Long  Island  Sound,  where  she  would 
probably  remain  most  of  the  time  till  the  autumn. 
Yes;  she  would  be  in  town  occasionally;  but  the 
house  in  Seventy-fifth  Street  was  too  small  to  be 
comfortable,  now  that  there  were  two  children  run 
ning  about.  Hilda  preferred  the  country  in  any 
case.  She  had  little  taste  for  society,  and  less  for 

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New  York.  If  ever  they  built  a  house  on  Long 
Island  she  would  probably  make  it  her  home.  The 
present  cottage  was  no  more  than  a  bungalow, 
which  Miss  Hornblower  had  constructed  for  herself 
during  her  parents'  lifetime.  Now  that  she  owned 
the  big  house,  she  had  been  willing  to  sell  him  some 
twenty  acres  of  her  estate,  including  this  picturesque 
little  residence,  all  balconies  and  verandas.  It 
was  sufficient  for  their  present  needs,  but,  un 
doubtedly,  when  he  could  afford  it  he  would  build 
on  a  larger  scale.  Just  now  Hilda  was  occupied  in 
laying  out  the  bit  of  ground  and  making  a  garden. 
In  this  she  was  following  Ralph  Coningsby's  plans. 

While  he  talked  to  one  neighbor  he  knew  the  other 
continued  to  listen,  and  presently  Mrs.  Legrand 
broke  in  again. 

"So  funny  of  Mrs.  Grace  not  to  care  for  society. 
With  all  her  advantages  she  might  become  quite  a 
leader  in  time,  don't  you  know  she  might?  I  should 
have  thought  it  was  just  the  sort  of  thing  you  would 
have  liked." 

He  murmured  something  about  the  expense  of 
keeping  up  a  social  position  in  New  York,  adding 
that  money  didn't  go  as  far  in  that  city  as  he  sup 
posed  it  would  before  settling  there. 

She  took  this  as  a  pleasantry.  "Oh,  money!  A 
lot  you  need  think  of  it.  I  only  wish  we  had  half 
your  income,  or  a  quarter  of  it.  And  young  people 
like  you  and  Mrs.  Grace  aren't  expected  to  make  a 
splurge  all  at  once.  I  think  it  better  taste  not  to. 
My  cousin,  Mrs.  Kermit  Van  Iderstine,  was  all  ready 
to  take  you  both  up,  when  you  came  here  six  years 
ago,  and  to  push  you.  You'd  have  owed  that  to 
me,"  she  concluded,  archly. 

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He  forced  himself  to  smile.  "I  must  thank  you 
for  the  will,  even  if  nothing  came  of  the  deed." 
.  "Well,  that  isn't  your  fault  or  mine.  And  it 
isn't  my  cousin's  fault,  either.  Mrs.  Grace  could 
have  had  anything  she  liked — which  means  that 
you'd  have  had  it,  too.  I  often  think  of  what  my 
Esther  could  do  in  that  way — for  the  right  man." 

He  glanced  down  the  table  again.  The  girl  was 
in  a  flashing  holiday  mood,  as  she  always  was  when 
in  touch  with  any  of  the  gayer  phases  of  life.  "He'll 
turn  up — the  right  man,"  Charlie  Grace  said,  at 
last. 

Not  to  seem  to  mean  too  much  Mrs.  Legrand  spoke 
lightly.  "Unfortunately,  in  her  case,  the  right  man 
would  be  the  one  whom  some  people  would  think 
the  wrong  man.  And  she's  so  brave.  But,"  she 
added,  more  seriously,  "to  return  to  Mrs.  Grace. 
I  shouldn't  be  the  one  to  complain  of  her  not  liking 
society,  should  I  ? — when  we  profit  by  it  to  the  extent 
of  using  your  box  at  the  opera.  You  don't  know 
what  that  has  meant  to  Esther.  And  she's  been  so 
much  admired — now  that  she's  been  put  where 
people  can  see  her.  It's  so  kind  of  you,  don't  you 
know  it  is?"  She  made  one  of  her  effective  little 
pauses.  "I  only  hope  it  won't  be — misunderstood." 

He  felt  obliged  to  say,  "  I  don't  see  what  there  is  to 
misunderstand." 

"Oh,  you  wouldn't,  Charlie.  You're  so  kind  you 
never  see  anything  but  the  good.  I  only  wish  there 
were  more  like  you.  But  Esther  understands.  I 
think  she  does.  And  she's  so  brave." 

Feeling  it  wiser  not  to  probe  the  meaning  of  this 
cryptic  speech,  notwithstanding  the  wild  and  foolish 
exultation  it  wrought  in  him,  he  turned  once  more 

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toward  Mrs.  Furnival,  who  was  watching  for  a 
chance  to  say,  in  a  whisper: 

"I've  been  hearing  the  most  extraordinary  things 
about  our  host." 

Charlie  Grace's  eyes  traveled  to  the  head  of  the 
table,  where  Reggie  had  been  called  on  to  play  the 
man's  part  on  behalf  of  his  sister.  He  was  no 
longer  slim  and  elegant.  At  thirty-seven  he  was  de 
veloping  a  waist-line  to  which  no  tailor  could  lend 
grace.  His  head  had  grown  prematurely  bald,  his 
features  bloated  and  his  eyes  dulled. 

In  response  to  Mrs.  Furnival's  confidence  Charlie 
Grace  murmured  a  polite,  "Indeed?" 

"And  about  our  hostess,"  the  lady  continued. 
"It's  as  much  about  her  as  about  him." 

He  grew  visibly  interested. 

"Do  you  remember  a  girl  named  Bright?  They 
used  to  be  at  St.  David's  in  your  father's  time." 

He  admitted  being  able  to  recall  her. 

"Well,  Reggie  and  she  have  been  friends — very 
great  friends — very  great  friends  indeed" 

As  she  waited  for  a  response  he  said,  "I  think  I've 
heard  so." 

"And  now  Fanny  says  they  ought  to  be  married. 
Did  you  ever  hear  anything  like  that? — from  a  sister, 
of  all  people!" 

He  smiled  as  he  looked  into  the  little  old  painted 
face  gazing  up  into  his,  still  with  a  trace  of  the 
pretty  appeal  it  knew  how  to  make  some  twenty  or 
thirty  years  earlier.  "  But  if  you  had  a  brother  in  the 
same  situation,  wouldn't  you  think  so?" 

She  was  shocked.  "Oh,  Charlie!  I  know  you're 
very  advanced  and  free-thinking,  and  all  that,  but 
you  shouldn't  make  fun  of  me.  I'm  very  conserva- 

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tive  and  orthodox.  I've  no  sympathy  with  your 
loose  modern  ways  of  thinking.  I'm  greatly  sur 
prised  at  Fanny,  I  must  say.  And  yet  isn't  it  often 
that  way? — that  the  sweet,  gentle  creature,  who 
seems  so  good,  will  do  the  most  scandalously  daring 
things?" 

"  People  sometimes  seem  daring  when  they're  only 
brave." 

"And  you  call  it  brave? — to  urge  a  brother  into 
such  a  match  as  that?" 

"Wouldn't  a  match  like  that  be  better  than — 
well,  than  the  match  they're  making  of  it  now?" 

"You're  really  laughing  at  me.  Oh,  I  know  I'm 
old  -  fashioned.  But  it's  principle,  Charlie.  You 
always  come  to  grief  when  you  get  away  from 
principles.  And  he  looks  so  old,  poor  fellow,  doesn't 
he?  That  must  be — her.  And  I  want  to  say  some 
thing  else,  Charlie.  It's  about  yourself.  You  won't 
be  offended,  will  you?  You  know  what  a  warm 
interest  I've  always  taken  in  you." 

He  assured  her  of  this,  giving  her  authority  to 
speak.  After  Mrs.  Legrand's  hints  he  was  nervous 
as  to  what  might  be  coming. 

"I  shouldn't  say  anything  about  it  at  all  if  Freddy 
hadn't  spoken  of  it  first.  He's  spoken  of  it  several 
times — almost  every  time  he's  seen  you  of  late. 
And  you  know  what  an  interest  I  always  take  in 
you,  don't  you,  Charlie?  I'm  very  maternal  that 
way  about  Freddy's  friends.  It's  this.  You're  not 
looking  well." 

He  laughed,  not  altogether  mirthfully.  "Oh,  I'm 
well  enough." 

"And  you  look  worried,  Charlie.  Since  you've 
allowed  me  to  go  so  far,  I'll  say  that,  too." 

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"That's  likely  enough.  A  man  of  thirty-eight, 
with  a  lot  of  irons  in  the  fire — some  of  which  persist 
in  getting  cold — has  plenty  of  reason  for  looking 
worried." 

She  grew  pensive.  "I  often  think  that  it's  not 
work  that  worries  one  so  much  as —  You  see,  I've 
had  such  a  lot  of  experience.  My  own  life  hasn't 
been  always  happy."  From  this  tone  she  reacted 
quickly  to  say:  "I  wonder  where  Fanny  gets  these 
delicious  water-ices.  They're  always  better  than 
any  one  else's."  With  this  diversion  she  was  able, 
without  seeming  too  pointed,  to  begin  again  on  a 
note  of  sympathy.  "I  wish  Mrs.  Grace  was  more 
in  town — or  went  about  more  when  she  is  here.  I 
feel  so  for  young  married  people.  If  there'd  only 
been  some  one  to  guide  me  in  the  first  years  of  my 
own  life!  But  I  wish  you'd  see  Freddy.  He's  said 
two  or  three  times  that  he  didn't  like  your  looks. 
How  funny  it  is  that  I  should  be  the  mother  of  a 
great,  wise  man  like  that.  They  say  he's  perfectly 
wonderful  for  some  things — his  specialty,  you  know. 
His  father  was  a  good — doctor.  Every  one  admitted 
that.  But  I  wish  you'd  see  him,  Charlie.  It 
couldn't  do  you  any  harm.  And  when  Mrs.  Grace 
is  in  town  if  there's  anything  I  can  do — a  young 
married  woman  often  likes  to  have  a  confidante — 
some  one  who's  been  through  it  herself,  you 
know — " 

It  was  a  relief  to  Charlie  Grace  when  Fanny  rose 
and  the  ladies  followed  her.  Even  then  themes  of 
health  were  not  wholly  at  an  end,  for  later  in  the 
evening,  in  the  drawing-room,  Esther  approached  him 
to  say: 

"  Did  you  know  our  dear  old  Remnant  wasn't  well  ? 
399 


He's  been  confined  to  the  house  for  a  fortnight — the 
very  first  time  in  his  life." 

He  could  have  given  his  mind  more  intelligently 
to  this  information  if  he  hadn't  seen  in  her  crossing 
the  floor  to  speak  to  him  a  significance  that  set  his 
heart  to  pounding  and  brought  color  to  his  sallow 
cheek.  He  had  been  carefully  avoiding  her.  He 
had  been  doing  it  with  the  echo  of  her  mother's 
words  in  his  ears:  "I  hope  it  won't  be  misunder 
stood."  He  began  to  be  afraid  that  there  was  no 
longer  a  chance  of  that — that  the  understanding  of 
his  situation — and  Esther's — was  all  too  clear. 
Since  the  scraps  of  conversation  at  the  table  he  was 
conscious  of  a  growing  sense  of  alarm.  It  had  not 
occurred  to  him  before  that  their  little  group  of 
intimates  could  be  interesting  themselves  in  the 
relations  existing  between  himself  and  Hilda.  He 
and  she  had  been  so  discreet  as  to  their  agreement 
to  differ  that  it  was  difficult  to  see  how  the  fact  of 
it  could  have  leaked  out.  He  had  been  discreet, 
too,  with  regard  to  Esther — or  at  least  he  thought 
he  had.  For  the  past  two  or  three  years  he  had 
been  the  privileged  friend  of  the  Legrand  family, 
but  purely  on  the  score  of  ties  dating  from  boyhood. 
It  was  a  thoroughly  honorable  friendship,  with 
nothing  behind  it  that  the  world  knew  anything 
about.  Even  Hilda  had  come  to  acknowledge,  or 
to  seem  to  acknowledge,  that  there  was  nothing  in 
it  to  fear.  She  had  resigned  herself  to  it  with 
apparent  indifference,  and  was  willing  that  Mrs. 
Legrand  should  use  the  box  at  the  opera,  since  she, 
Hilda,  had  a  distaste  for  doing  so  herself.  She  had 
grown  indifferent,  too,  to  his  other  kindnesses  to 
the  Legrand  family — flowers,  tickets,  entertainments, 

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and  what  not — attentions  by  which  an  old  friend 
is  permitted  to  brighten  the  lives  of  those  less  well 
off  than  himself. 

It  was  a  pleasant  arrangement,  giving  satisfaction 
to  him  without  injuring  Esther.  She  was  sheltered 
by  her  innocence.  He  could  never  see  that  her 
liking  for  him  was  different  from  her  affection  for 
Remnant — on  another  plane.  He  certainly  didn't 
interfere  with  the  chances  of  Ralph  Coningsby,  or 
with  those  of  two  or  three  other  impecunious  young 
men  who  hung  about  the  rectory.  Even  they  didn't 
regard  him  as  interfering — looking  upon  him  as  an 
elderly  fellow,  with  a  taste  for  fatherly  benevolence. 
As  for  himself,  if  he  adored  the  girl,  it  was  no  one's 
business  but  his  own.  If  he  considered  that  the 
adoration  was  worth  the  price  he  paid  for  it  in 
silent,  carefully  hidden  suffering,  that,  too,  was  his 
affair. 

It  was  the  more  disturbing,  then,  to  find  that  what 
he  supposed  to  be  locked  up  in  his  heart  was  being 
whispered  in  the  streets,  and  perhaps  published  on 
the  housetops.  It  was  a  shock  to  learn  that  pos 
sibly  Esther  cared  for  him.  It  was  a  shock  with  an 
element  of  wild,  lawless  joy  in  it,  a  joy  that  made 
the  restraints  and  conventions  of  organized  society 
trivial,  giving  a  kind  of  glory  to  the  act  of  transcend 
ing  them.  In  the  impulse  of  this  joy  one  could 
abandon  wife  and  child  and  sacrifice  everything  that 
the  world  commends.  One  could  be  lost  in  it,  and 
by  it,  and  for  it,  and  find  ruin  worth  while.  Earthly 
considerations  were  to  it  but  as  the  shackles  of  green 
withes  to  Samson.  Duty  and  honor  and  moral 
codes  were  as  meaningless  to  its  needs  as  sunsets  to 
dwellers  in  the  sun.  One  could  be  pilloried  and 

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outlawed  for  it,  only  to  discover  the  glorious  liberty 
of  the  spirit  and  the  heart. 

He  had  had  these  thoughts  before;  he  had  had  them 
in  dreams  and  longings  and  minutes  of  bitterness; 
but  not  till  now  had  they  followed  him  into  waking, 
working  life.  They  surged  up  clamorously  within 
him  as  he  saw  her  cross  the  room  toward  him. 
Deliberately,  easily,  with  a  certain  unconscious 
courage,  perhaps  with  unconscious  recklessness,  she 
left  the  group  about  her  and  came  to  him.  Eyes 
followed  her;  whispers  followed  her.  She  was 
splendidly  unaware  of  both.  She  could  afford  to 
be  unaware  of  both,  if  for  nothing  but  the  grace  of 
her  free,  unaffected  movements.  Only  such  grace 
could  have  carried  with  distinction  the  rich  dress  of 
amber-colored  silk  with  long,  sweeping  train  —  too 
old  for  her  even  at  twenty-five — which  had  shed  its 
first  luster,  a  year  or  two  before,  on  Mrs.  Peter 
Legrand.  In  his  mood  at  the  minute  it  was  as  if 
she  had  heard  the  call  of  his  heart  and  were  respond 
ing  to  it. 

"How  old  is  Remnant?" 

It  was  all  he  could  think  of  to  say. 

"Not  so  very  old — not  quite  seventy.  But  as 
he's  never  been  ill  before  we're  anxious  about  him. 
I  dare  say  it's  no  more  than  a  bad  cold." 

"You  go  to  see  him?" 

She  laughed.  "Of  course  I  do — everyday.  He'd 
think  it  very  strange  if  I  didn't." 

"I've  often  wondered  how  the  old  chap  lived. 
Not  having  a  wife,  or  a  family,  or  any  home  that  I 
ever  heard  of — " 

"He  was  rather  forlorn  till  we  came  here.  He 
knocked  about,  first  in  one  lodging-house,  then  in 

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another.  It  was  all  very  well  when  he  was  younger; 
but  it  was  hard  on  him  as  he  got  up  in  years.  Now 
we've  put  him — that  is,  father  and  I  have — with  a 
nice,  motherly  Englishwoman  who  takes  very  good 
care  of  him.  I'll  let  you  know  how  he  gets  along. 
I  may  even  persuade  you  to  go  and  see  him,  if  he 
doesn't  soon  get  about.  He's  devoted  to  Mr. 
Charlie,  as  he  calls  you." 

She  nodded  and  left  him.  There  was  nothing  in 
the  brief  conversation  to  stir  the  pulses,  and  yet  he 
felt  himself  glowing  as  from  a  magic  draught.  Since 
he  had  been  afraid  to  go  to  her,  she  had  come  to  him. 
She  had  done  it  calmly  and  boldly,  as  if  bringing 
him  her  love  before  all  the  world.  "Esther  under 
stands,"  her  mother  had  said.  He  was  sure  that 
it  was  because  she  understood  that  she  had  insisted 
on  giving  him  these  few  words,  smiling  into  his  eyes. 

He  was  still  under  their  spell  when  Miss  Horn- 
blower  took  the  opportunity,  just  as  he  was  about 
to  follow  the  example  of  Osborne  and  Emma  in 
bidding  her  good  night,  to  say: 

"Are  you  in  a  great  hurry?  Couldn't  you  wait  a 
few  minutes  after  the  others  have  gone?  There's 
something  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  particularly, 
and  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  have  another  chance. 
I  leave  for  my  little  place  in  Prince  Edward  Island 
very  soon." 

Feeling  that  he  had  no  choice  but  to  remain,  he 
stood  in  a  comfortable  attitude  before  the  fire,  watch 
ing  Fanny  speed  her  parting  guests.  He  didn't  for 
get  the  fact  that  he  used  to  suspect  her  of  being  in 
love  with  him,  and,  though  until  recently  he  had  not 
seen  her  intimately  for  many  years,  he  suspected  it 
still.  He  was  far  from  believing  that  this  fruitless 

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affection  had  been  the  reason  why  she  had  never 
married,  and  yet  he  couldn't  help  taking  it  as  a 
concomitant  cause.  It  was  possible  to  think  her, 
as  most  people  thought  her,  the  American  spinster  by 
natural  vocation,  and  still  to  credit  her  with  some  bit 
of  tender,  unacknowledged  romance,  laid  away  now 
with  pansies  for  thought,  and  rosemary  for  remem 
brance,  and  lavender  for  sweet,  perpetual  perfume, 
but  once  a  living  and  a  breathing  thing.  She  was 
that  sort  of  person.  With  her  pale  face,  pale  hair, 
and  pale  eyes,  she  was  the  negation  of  all  the  emo 
tions  but  those  of  a  gentle  goodness.  It  was  a 
goodness  not  inconsistent  with  authority — the  au 
thority  that  comes  by  instinct  to  the  mistress  of  a 
large  income.  It  was  a  gentleness  not  blind  to  the 
necessity  for  dressing  well — her  white  draperies  do 
ing  much  to  conceal  her  angularity.  She  wore 
pearls  round  her  neck,  and  pearls  and  diamonds  and 
emeralds  on  her  long,  thin,  white  hands.  Of  all  the 
women  of  his  acquaintance  Charlie  Grace  considered 
her  as  in  essentials  most  distinctively  the  gentle 
woman — with  the  gentlewoman's  tact  and  courtesy 
and  reserve  and  hauteur  and  characteristic  minutes 
of  shyness. 

He  felt  it  a  privilege,  therefore,  to  be  seated  with 
her  in  intimate  conversation  before  the  dying  fire, 
so  placed  that  they  could  look  into  each  other's  eyes 
if  they  chose,  or,  if  they  chose,  gaze  at  the  smolder 
ing  embers.  Fanning  herself  slowly  with  a  small 
white  fan  bestrewn  with  golden  spangles,  she  plunged 
into  her  subject  at  once. 

"I  hardly  know  how  to  say  what  I  want  to  say, 
Charlie — and  perhaps  I  don't  even  know  what  I 
ought  to  say.  It's  about  Esther." 

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He  leaned  forward,  an  arm  across  one  knee,  a  hand 
supported  on  the  other.  His  response  was  in  the 
way  in  which  he  looked  up  at  her. 

"Some  of  us  are  a  little — worried  about  her,"  she 
explained,  further. 

"About  her — and  me?" 

"Not  about  you  so  much  as  about  her — for  the 
reason  that  you  can  take  care  of  yourself." 

"Take  care  of  myself — how?" 

"I  mean  that  if  what  we're  afraid  of  were  to 
happen  you  could  gather  up  the  pieces  of  your  life 
and  still  make  something  out  of  it — at  the  worst; 
whereas  hers  would  be  shattered  beyond  any  re 
covery  of  the  fragments — at  the  best." 

"And  what  is  it  you're  afraid  may  happen?" 

She  stopped  fanning  herself  to  look  at  him  steadily. 
"Don't  you  know?" 

He  weighed  the  question  for  some  seconds.  "Sup 
pose  I  admit  that  I  do  know,  will  you  tell  me  whom 
you  mean  by  we?" 

"I  mean  myself,  first  of  all.  And  then  I  mean 
Mrs.  Legrand — " 

"Is  she  afraid?" 

"She's  anxious." 

"Anxious — for  what  result?" 

She  smiled  dimly.  "I'd  rather  not  talk  about 
that — just  yet,  at  any  rate." 

"And  when  you  say  we,  do  you  include — Hilda?" 

It  was  her  turn  to  weigh  the  question.  "I  didn't 
include  her — but  I  suppose  I  could." 

"You  and  Hilda  have  become  very  confidential, 
haven't  you?" 

"Naturally,  when  I'm  at  Idlewild  and  she's  at  the 
bungalow  we  see  a  good  deal  of  each  other.  The 

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very  fact  that  nowadays  you  always  stay  in  New 
York  throws  us  the  more  together.  I  suppose  she 
feels  it  necessary  to  give  me  some  sort  of  explanation 
of  things  between  you  being  as  they  are." 

"And  how  are  they? — from  Hilda's  point  of  view. 
/  don't  know." 

She  turned  her  fan  over  and  examined  the  other 
side.  "Don't  you  think  you  ought  to  ask  her?" 

"No;  because  I  shouldn't  get  an  answer — that  is, 
an  answer  that  would  tell  me  anything.  You  know 
Hilda's  capacity  for  silence.  When  I'm  near  her 
it's  more  than  silence — it's  absence  as  well.  She  has 
a  way  of  retiring  into  a  world  of  her  own  into  which 
apparently  I've  never  been  worthy  to  enter." 

"Did  you  ever  try?" 

"I've  never  tried  for  the  same  reason  that  I've 
never  tried  to  reach  the  moon.  I  don't  see  any  way 
of  getting  there.  But  that's  not  quite  the  point. 
Does  Hilda  think  that  we're  likely  to  be —  It 
required  some  bracing  of  himself  before  he  could 
pronounce  the  word.  "Does  Hilda  think,"  he  began 
again,  "that  we're  likely  to  be — separated?" 

"Do  you?" 

He  raised  himself,  leaning  back  in  his  arm-chair. 
"I  don't  believe  you  get  my  drift,  Fanny.  What  I 
think  so  largely  depends  on  what  Hilda  thinks  that 
I  have  to  discover  her  wishes  before  I  can  form 
opinions  of  my  own." 

"Then  I  can  tell  you  as  much  as  this — she  doesn't 
want  to  be  separated." 

"Is  that  for  her  sake,  or  my  sake,  or  the  chil 
dren's?" 

"It's  for  everything — for  the  sake  of  her  whole 
ideal  of  marriage." 

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"And  what  about  her  ideal  of  happiness?" 

She  hesitated.  "I'm  not  sure  that  I  ought  to 
speak  about  that.  It  belongs  so  exclusively  between 
you  two." 

"But  if  Hilda  has  spoken  of  it — " 

"She  never  has — at  any  rate,  not  all  at  once.  I've 
only  inferred — " 

"That's  just  what  I  want  to  know.  What  have 
you  inferred?" 

She  looked  pensively  into  the  embers.  "That  she 
hasn't  had  any  ideal  of  happiness — not  since  she 
discovered  that  you — that  you  cared  for  some  one 
else — and  considered  your  marriage  to  her  a  mistake." 

"But  she  considers  it  a  mistake,  too.  She  said  so. 
She  wrote  it  to  me.  She  led  me  into  agreeing  with 
her." 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  pitying  smile.  "Oh, 
Charlie,  you  can't  always  go  by  what  a  woman  says 
on  a  subject  like  that.  Every  woman  has  times  when 
she  wonders  if  she  didn't  do  her  husband  an  injury 
in  marrying  him.  I  know  she  wrote  it  to  you — 
before  Billy  was  born.  If  it  hadn't  been  just  then, 
she  might  never  have  said  it." 

He  raised  his  eyebrows.  "How  was  I  to  know 
that?" 

"It  doesn't  matter  whether  you  could  know  it  or 
not.  The  point  lies  not  in  her  saying  it,  but  in  your 
believing  it.  If  you  hadn't  believed  it,  she  might 
have  said  it  a  hundred  times,  and  it  wouldn't  have 
done  any  harm." 

"I  believed  it  because — " 

"Because  you  believed  it.  There's  no  other 
explanation  than  that.  When  she  saw  that  you 
believed  it,  her  ideal  of  happiness — since  you  ask 

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s bout  that — was  shattered.  Nothing  but  years  of 
tenderness  could  have  put  it  together  again — and 
you  haven't  given  her  years  of  tenderness." 

"I've  been  as  tender  as  she'd  let  me  be." 

"As  tender  as  she'd  let  you  be  after  she'd  con 
ceded  you  the  right  to  be  equally  tender  to  Esther." 

"I  don't  think  I've  asked  her  to  concede  much 
there.  I've  asked  her — tacitly,  that  is — not  to  be 
suspicious.  That's  all." 

"She  didn't  have  to  be  suspicious.  She  knew. 
We  all  knew.  Everybody  knew." 

He  swung  round  from  his  contemplation  of  the 
smoldering  logs  to  face  her.  "What  did  you  know?" 

"Oh,  Charlie,  don't  ask  me.  It's  too  distressing 
to  think  about,  much  less  to  discuss.  I  shouldn't 
speak  of  it  at  all  if  I  were  not  alarmed  for  Esther. 
I  should  think  you'd  be  alarmed  about  her,  too." 

He  got  up  restlessly,  standing  with  his  back  to 
the  fire.  "Why  should  you  be  alarmed?  What  do 
you  think  she'd  do?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  She's  a  strange  girl — a  beau 
tiful,  noble  girl — but  if  she  got  an  idea  into  her  head 
— or  into  her  heart — which  might  be  worse — " 

"And  may  I  ask  if  you  have  the  same  first-hand 
knowledge  of  her  that  you  have  of  Hilda?" 

"N-no.  Of  course,  I've  studied  her — since  we've 
all  been  so  distressed  about — the  situation.  But 
I  don't  know  her  so  very  well." 

"You  mean  that  you're  not  actually  in  her  con 
fidence." 

"Not  in  hers." 

"In  her  mother's,  then." 

"That's  more — it." 

He  was  silent  a  minute,  tilting  on  his  toes,  and 
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flapping  the  tails  of  his  coat  before  the  fire.  "Look 
here,  Fanny,"  he  began  at  last;  "what  do  you  think 
of  the  mother?" 

She  looked  up  at  him,  then  down.  "Oh,  I  think 
— a  good  many  things." 

"You  think  she's  straight?" 

"I  think  she's  very  straight — with  regard  to  her 
self.  She  doesn't  conceal  anything." 

"She  doesn't  conceal — that  she's  very  ambitious." 

She  smiled,  and  shook  her  head.  "I'm  afraid 
not." 

"Desperately  ambitious." 

"I'm  afraid  'desperately*  is  the  word." 

"And   terrified- 

"Yes;  terrified,  too.  Esther  seems  to  attract  the 
poor  young  men  rather  than  the  rich  ones — " 

"And  with  the  mother  money  counts  before  every 
thing.  Isn't  that  it?" 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  be  too  hard  on  her.  You  see, 
the  poor  thing  has  been  starved  all  these  years — 
starved,  that  is,  for  the  sort  of  thing  she  cares  about. 
I  don't  say  it's  a  very  fine  sort  of  thing;  but  it  means 
as  much  to  her  as  if  it  was.  And  Mr.  Legrand  has 
never  perceived  it.  He  wouldn't,  you  know.  He's 
the  kind  of  saintly  man  who'd  give  the  half  of  his 
goods  to  feed  the  poor,  and  take  for  granted  that  his 
own  family  can  get  along  without  money.  It's 
rather  pitiful — and  sublime,  too — the  way  he  lives 
his  life  thinking  his  wife  reflects  his  ideals — when 
all  the  while  she's  fighting  with  might  and  main 
against  them." 

"But  Esther, reflects  them." 

"Y-yes." 

"You  say  that  doubtfully." 

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"No,  it  isn't  doubtfully.  She's  young  and  eager 
and  full  of  the  zest  of  life.  She  reflects  anything 
that  comes  her  way.  Since  what  has  come  her  way 
has  been  good  and  noble,  it's  been  all  right.  But 
she's  her  mother's  child  as  well  as  her  father's. 
You  must  see  that." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  do." 

"Oh,  you  must.  You  must  see  it  in  her  love  of 
pleasure,  in  the  delight  she  takes  in  everything 
brilliant  and  gay — " 

"Surely  that's  natural  enough  at  her  age." 

"Oh,  quite.  I'm  only  saying  that  she  enjoys  it. 
She  enjoys  it  so  much  that  if  a  great  temptation  were 
put  in  her  way — " 

"Well?     What  then?" 

"It  would  be — a  temptation." 

"Will  you  tell  me  exactly  what  you  mean  by 
that?" 

"No,  Charlie;  I  won't.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  know 
— not  any  more  than  one  knows  what  sort  of  storm 
is  coming  when  one  sees  the  clouds  gathering.  It's 
sufficient  to  see  that  there's  likely  to  be  a  storm." 

"And  take  shelter?     Is  that  what  you  mean?" 

"No;  give  shelter." 

"Give   shelter — to   Esther?" 

"To  Esther,  in  the  first  place."  She  waited  a 
minute,  then  added  quietly:  "I  mean  to  ask  her 
to  come  with  me  to  Prince  Edward  Island.  If  that 
doesn't  attract  her,  I  shall  invite  her  to  spend  the 
summer  with  me  abroad." 

"Is  that  to  get  her  away  from  me?" 

"It's  to  get  you  away  from  each  other.  I  said 
it  would  be  giving  shelter  to  Esther  in  the  first  place; 
but  in  the  second  it  would  be  to  you." 

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"I  don't  see  where  that  would  come  in." 

She  reflected.  "I've  thought  that  if  Esther  were 
not  actually  here,  you  might  give  more  thought  to 
yourself." 

"To  myself?" 

She  gazed  straight  up  into  his  face.  "You  look 
ill,  Charlie.  Hasn't  anybody  told  you  that?" 

He  ignored  the  question.  "And  you  think  I 
should  get  better  if  she  were  away?" 

"I  don't  say  that,  Charlie.  But  it  would  give 
you  time  and  quiet  to  think  in.  That  means  a  good 
deal,  you  know.  It's  something  I  myself  learned— 
by  experience.  If  I  hadn't  done  so  perhaps  I 
shouldn't  venture  to  recommend  it  now.  I'll  tell 
you  something.  I  once  had  a  great  trouble — like 
yours — only  different.  And  they  took  me  away.  I 
didn't  want  to  go  at  first — but  after  I  had  gone — I 
came  to  see — that  separation — and  solitude — " 

"Helped  you  to  forget,"  he  said,  bitterly. 

"No;  not  to  forget;  to  remember — but  to  re 
member  with  more — inward  peace.  That's  what  I 
found,  Charlie;  and  that's  what  I'm  offering  to  help 
you  find.  If  you  don't  want  it  for  yourself  you'll 
not  refuse  it  to  Esther,  will  you?" 
i  He  was  a  long  time  silent,  tilting  on  his  toes  and 
staring  moodily  at  the  hearth-rug.  When  at  last 
he  spoke  it  was  to  say: 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you,  Fanny.  But  it  seems 
to  me  that  there's  a  more  practical  way  than  that — 
if  Hilda  would  only  take  it." 


CHAPTER  II 

NOW,  Charlie,  what  is  the  matter?" 
Emma  spoke  in  the  authoritative  tone  of  one 
who  has  a  right  to  inquire  into  the  situation  and 
deal  with  it.  Her  brother  busied  himself  with 
arranging  small  articles  on  his  desk — the  carved 
Renaissance  desk  that  had  been  the  nucleus  of  the 
furnishing  of  the  library  and  of  the  whole  house. 
Emma  had  looked  in  after  the  Sunday  morning  ser 
vice  at  St.  Thomas's,  while  Osborne  had  gone  back 
to  the  hotel.  It  was  a  minute  or  more  before  Charlie 
Grace  made  up  his  mind  what  to  say. 

"Everything's  the  matter." 

"Why  should  I  meet  that  man  Ellis  prowling 
round  the  house?" 

He  tore  up  an  old  envelope,  throwing  the  fragments 
into  the  waste-paper  basket.  "To-day?  He  isn't 
usually  about  on  Sundays." 

"Does  that  mean  that  he  is  on  other  days?" 

"Sometimes — often,  in  fact.  Perhaps  he  lives  in 
the  neighborhood,  though  I  don't  believe  he  does." 
A  slight  change  in  his  tone  indicated  a  resolve  to  be 
frank.  "The  truth  is — he  dogs  me." 

"Dogs  you?     What  for?" 

"The  Lord  knows;  I  don't.  I  suppose  he  must 
get  some  fun  out  of  it.  I  meet  him  everywhere — at 
every  turn.  He  must  like  looking  at  me.  Or,  per 
haps — he  likes  me  to  look  at  him." 

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"He's  not  a  pretty  sight.  He  must  drink — or  take 
drugs.  He's  a  wreck." 

He  tore  up  some  old  letters.  "Possibly  that's  why 
he  likes  to  have  me  look  at  him." 

"Does  he  ever  speak  to  you?" 

"Never." 

"Nor  you  to  him?" 

"I  nod  to  him  if  he's  right  under  my  feet." 

"I  must  say  I  think  that's  very  good  of  you,  after 
the  way  he  betrayed  you  about  the  Buffalo  &  New 
London." 

"Oh,  he  didn't  betray  me.  I  bear  him  no  grudge 
for  that — exactly.  He  knew  it  would  dish  the  whole 
business,  and  me  in  particular,  if  he  gave  it  away 
to  the  newspapers — and  he  gave  it  away.  I  don't 
blame  him.  It's  what  I  should  probably  have  done 
to  him  if  I'd  been  in  his  place.  I  dare  say  he  got  a 
little  money  for  it,  too.  I  hope  he  did." 

Emma  looked  at  him  curiously.  Because  she  was 
stouter  she  made  it  a  point  to  sit  even  more  erect, 
choosing  on  this  occasion  the  foot  of  the  sofa,  where 
she  should  find  no  support.  Her  face  had  grown 
softer,  mellower,  just  as  that  of  the  old  rector  of 
St.  David's  had  done  in  his  later  life.  Her  white 
hair,  rolled  high  from  the  forehead,  gave  added 
dignity  to  her  countenance. 

"I  must  say,  Charlie,  you  speak  very  dispassion 
ately  about  it,  considering  the  harm  he's  done  you." 

"If  I  speak  dispassionately  it's  because  I  feel  so. 
The  failure  of  the  Buffalo  &  New  London  deal  is 
only  a  drop  in  the  bucket." 

"It's  a  very  big  drop  in  the  bucket — according  to 
Sir  William  Short.  Perhaps  you  didn't  know  that." 

He    shrugged    his    shoulders.     "Oh    yes,    I    did. 


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I  know  Short's  opinion  of  me.  He'll  supersede  me 
here  one  of  these  days.  He  thinks  that  as  far  as  New 
York  is  concerned  I  haven't  made  good.  Well,  if 
that  was  the  only  way  in  which  I  haven't  made  good 
I  should  be  able  to  laugh." 

She  studied  him  again.  "Charlie,  what  is  the 
matter?  Surely  you're  not  taking  drugs,  like  Ellis. 
You  look  it.  It's  no  use  saying  you  don't,  because 
you  do." 

"No,  I'm  not  taking  drugs."  He  pulled  out  a 
drawer  and  looked  into  it.  "My  dope  is  harder  to 
knock  off  than  drugs." 

She  seemed  to  debate  within  herself  as  to  how 
closely  she  might  question  him.  "Is  your  dope — in 
Vandiver  Place?" 

He  stooped,  peering  into  the  back  of  the  drawer. 

"What  makes  you  ask?" 

"I  ask  because  if  it  is — you  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself." 

"Well,  I  am  ashamed  of  myself.  But  that  doesn't 
make  any  difference — to  the  dope." 

"And  the  dope  is  that  you're  in  love  with  a  girl 
young  enough  to  be  your  daughter." 

"Oh,  hardly  that.  I'm  thirty-eight,  and  she's 
twenty-five.  That's  not  so  much,  as  between  a  man 
and  a  woman." 

His  quiet  admission  of  the  charge  nonplussed  her. 
The  question  sounded  futile  even  to  herself  as  she 
asked,  "Then,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"What  can  I  do  about  it?" 

"It  isn't  what  you  can  do  so  much  as  what  you 
must." 

"And  what  I  must  do  is  do  nothing,  as  far  as  I  can 
see  now." 

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"What  about— her?" 

He  glanced  up  from  his  inspection  of  the  drawer. 
"Her?  Who?" 

"I  meant — the  girl.  Does  she — does  she — m'm — 
feel  as  you  do?" 

"I  haven't  asked  her." 

"But  you  know." 

"If  I  know,  it's  because  others  have  made  it  their 
business  to  find  out — and  tell  me." 

Emma  sought  relief  to  her  feelings  by  getting  up 
and  flouncing  about  the  library.  She  was  less 
dignified  when  she  walked.  "I  call  it  ridiculous." 

"Oh,  it's  ridiculous,  all  right.  You  might  say  even 
harsher  things  than  that." 

"And  Hilda?  How  in  the  world  could  she  let 
you  do  it?" 

"Oh,  Hilda  isn't  to  blame." 

"Don't  tell  me  that.  Shouldn't  I  be  to  blame  if 
Noddy  went  meandering  after  young  women  half 
his  age?  I've  no  patience  with  Hilda.  It's  no  use 
saying  I  have,  because  I  haven't.  What's  Hilda 
done  in  New  York? — with  all  her  advantages! 
Nothing." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  looking  up  at  her. 
Emma  being  a  Grace  like  himself,  there  was  no  need 
for  him  to  beat  about  the  bush.  "You  mustn't 
estimate  Hilda's  advantages  too  highly.  That's  a 
mistake  we've  all  made.  We've  made  it  from  the 
first.  Father  made  it  before  us,  and  we've  been 
making  it  since."  He  took  on  a  slightly  defiant 
air,  as  one  about  to  utter  heresy.  "The  Penrhyns 
aren't  much — not  as  New  York  is  constituted  to 
day." 

"They're  a  very  good  family — as  a  starting-point. 


THE     WAY     HOME 


I  don't  say  it's  everything;  but  with  money  to  back 
it  up— 

"And  that's  another  thing.  It  takes  a  lot  of 
money  to  cut  a  figure  in  New  York.  I've  found  that 
out.  It  takes  more  than  I've  got — or  than  I'm 
likely  to  have — now.  Before  we  came  here  for  good 
I  thought  we  were  going  to  do  the  deuce  and  all. 
I  thought  I  could  buy  up  the  place.  I  thought 
Hilda  would  only  have  to  appear  to  put  all  the  other 
women  in  the  shade.  Well — "  He  grew  reminis 
cent.  "Well,  she  hardly  ever  appeared — and  when 
she  did — she  was  like  a  pansy  in  a  garden  of  tulips. 
She  was  very  pretty — very  pretty  indeed — but  she 
didn't  show,  if  you  know  what  I  mean — she  didn't 
dazzle,  as  I  expected — " 

"My  dear  Charlie,  no  one  with  any  sense  could 
ever  have  expected  Hilda  to  dazzle — or  to  show, 
either.  That  isn't  her  style.  But  she  could  have 
worked.  She  could  have  played  the  cards  that  were 
right  in  her  hand.  That's  where  I  blame  her.  It's 
no  use  saying  I  don't,  because  I  do.  I  know  women 
who've  come  to  New  York  without  half  her  wires 
to  pull,  and  no  more  money  than  you — and  now 
they're  at  the  top  of  the  tree.  Oh,  don't  tell  me. 
If  Hilda  had  liked- 

He  was  getting  used  to  this  formula  now;  never 
theless,  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  defend  his  wife. 

"Well,  she  didn't  like.  That's  all  there  is  to  say 
about  it.  Or,  rather,"  he  added,  with  a  determina 
tion  to  be  just,  "she  might  have  come  to  like 
if  I  hadn't  taken  the  heart  out  of  her  from  the 
start." 

Tact  forbidding  her  to  question  him  as  to  this 
statement,  she  contented  herself  with  saying:  "Of 

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course,  I've   seen   for  several  years   past   that   she 
wasn't  happy." 

"Neither  of  us  is  happy,"  he  declared  with  em 
phasis;  "and  what's  more,  we  never  shall  be  happy. 
God  knows  it  isn't  for  want  of  trying,  either.  We've 
done  our  best  to  patch  it  up  ever  so  often — and 
always  with  the  same  result.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
Hilda  is  more  to  be  pitied  than  I  am." 

"Why?" 

"Because  she's  tied  to  a  man  she  despises;  while 
I'm  only  tied  to  a  woman  whom  I  respect  and 
admire." 

"H'm!  Are  you  quite  sure  of  that — as  to  Hilda's 
change  toward  you?" 

"It  isn't  a  change.  It's  the  way  she  felt  toward 
me  from  the  first.  She  never  made  any  bones  about 
saying  so.  I  was  fatuous  enough  to  think  I  might 
win  her  esteem — but  it  was  out  of  the  question. 
I've  only  succeeded  in  losing  my  own." 

"Of  course  you  lose  it — when  you  go  falling  in 
love  with  some  one  else." 

He  turned  a  haggard  face  on  her.  "How  was  I 
to  help  that?  Do  you  suppose  I  did  it  of  my  own 
accord?  Do  you  think  I  wouldn't  far  rather  have 
been  true  to  Hilda  and  become  a  respectable  hus 
band  and  father?  I  don't  say  that  I'm  a  saint,  or 
that  I  shouldn't  have  kicked  over  the  traces  now  and 
then,  whatever  happened;  but  I  should  have  re 
mained  true  in  soul.  But  this  thing  came — through 
forces  beyond  my  control — " 

There  was  tenderness  in  her  voice  as  she  said: 
"And  now  you're  miserable." 

"I'm  more  than  miserable.     I'm  sick." 

"Sick  of  marriage?" 

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"No;  sick  of  myself.  I  wish  to  God  I  could  die. 
I  often  think  that  if  it  weren't  for  the  children  I 
could  take  a  gun  and— 

"Now,  now,  Charlie;  don't  make  yourself  any 
more  foolish  than  you  are." 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  I?  What's  the  good  of  a 
life  like  mine?  Every  day  I  live  I  make  it  harder 
for  some  one.  If  I  were  to — to  get  out  now,  I  could 
cut  the  whole  knot.  I  could  do  it  with  a  rag  of 
credit,  too — credit  that's  being  used  up  so  fast  that 
it  mayn't  hold  out  much  longer.  I  could  leave 
money  enough  for  my  wife  and  children  to  live  on; 
and  I  could  save  them — and  some  one  else — from 
all  sorts  of  painful  developments — " 

"Charlie,  don't  talk  nonsense.  If  you  were  going 
to  die  you'd  feel  differently." 

She  came  and  sat  down  by  the  desk.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  saw  her  lip  tremble  and  a 
dash  of  tears  moisten  her  steady  eyes.  It  was  a 
new  complication  to  realize  that  Emma  loved  him 
— loved  him,  that  is,  with  something  more  than  the 
clannish,  shoulder-to-shoulder  loyalty  of  Grace  to 
ward  Grace.  Indeed,  it  was  something  of  a  surprise 
to  him  that  Emma's  cold  heart  could  love  any  one. 

"Oh,  I  know  I'm  a  coward  as  well  as  a  cad — " 
he  began. 

"What  would  you  like?  What  do  you  want? 
If  you  could  have  the  whole  situation  arranged  to 
suit  you,  what  would  you  say?" 

He  rested  his  forehead  on  his  hand.  "I  don't 
know." 

"Would  a  separation  between  you  and  Hilda  be 
any  good?" 

"I  don't  see  that  it  would.  We're  separated  now 
4.18 


THE     WAV    HOME 


— to  all  intents  and  purposes.  I  shall  go  down  to 
Rosyth  now  and  then,  but  only  to  keep  up  appear 
ances.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I'm  going  down  for 
next  Sunday;  but  Hilda  likes  it  better  when  I  don't 
come.  Apparently,  she's  afraid  of  my  influence  on 
the  children." 

"You're  fond  of  them?" 

"I  was." 

"But  you  surely  can't  mean  that  you  aren't 
still?" 

He  groaned  impatiently.  "Oh,  I  don't  know. 
Since  this — this  other  thing — this  infatuation,  if  you 
like — has  come  over  me,  Hilda  and  the  kids  don't 
seem  to  belong  to  me  any  more.  They're  miles 
away  from  me.  When  Billy  and  Milly  climb  on 
my  knee  and  throw  their  arms  around  my  neck, 
they  might  be  any  chance  young  ones  from  an 
orphanage.  I've  known  two  or  three  hounds  in  my 
time  who've  deserted  their  wives  and  children — and 
I've  wondered  how  they  could  do  it.  And  now,  by 
God,  I  could  do  it  myself — if  it  weren't  for  the 
decencies." 

"But  you  wouldn't?" 

His  eyes  rolled  slantwise  toward  her.  "If  she'd 
come  ...  I  couldn't  help  myself.  .  .  .  That's  the 
way  it  generally  happens." 

"But  she  wouldn't  go." 

He  gave  her  another  oblique  look.  "I  don't  know, 
I'm  sure.  She's  a  strange  girl.  I  don't  believe  any 
one  knows  what  she'd  do — under  stress." 

She  was  silent  for  some  minutes.  "Charlie,  you 
appal  me,"  she  said,  at  last. 

He  laughed  grimly.  "Oh,  that's  nothing.  I  don't 
appal  you  half  as  much  as  I  appal  myself." 

419 


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On  the  following  Saturday  afternoon  Charlie 
Grace  walked  up  the  sandy  road  leading  from  the 
wayside  station  of  Rosyth  to  his  little  property  on 
the  Sound.  He  walked  slowly,  partly  from  a  lack  of 
physical  energy,  partly  from  reluctance  to  arrive. 
It  was  to  postpone  the  minute  of  getting  there  that 
he  had  chosen  to  send  his  bag  by  the  motor  that  had 
come  to  the  station  to  meet  him,  while  he  plodded 
homeward  on  foot.  He  used  the  word  homeward 
with  some  emphasis,  to  remind  himself  that  the 
twenty  acres  of  which  he  could  see  the  undulations 
at  the  end  of  the  vista  the  road  made  through  the 
wood  were  actually  his  own.  There  had  been  a 
time  when  the  fact  would  have  made  him  proud, 
would  have  inspired  a  happy  sense  of  lordship. 
But  the  place  had  grown  alien  to  him.  Toward  the 
wife  and  children  it  sheltered  the  numbness  of  his 
emotions  had  become  poignant.  He  took,  therefore, 
no  pleasure  in  the  silvery  greening  of  the  wood,  or  in 
the  luscious  cadences  of  nesting  birds,  or  in  the  flash 
of  waters  caught  through  the  tresses  of  birch  trees 
in  new  leaf  and  across  plowed  fields.  He  took  no 
pleasure  in  apple  trees  in  blossom,  or  lilacs  purpled 
along  the  top,  or  syringa  starry  and  heavy-scented. 
He  took  no  pleasure  in  the  wind  with  the  tang  of 
salt  in  it.  On  reaching  the  confines  of  his  own  land 
he  took  no  pleasure  in  seeing  the  earth  raked  smooth 
for  the  kitchen-garden,  and  green  things  under  the 
glass  of  forcing  beds,  and  the  gardener's  boy  tending 
with  the  watering-can  long  lines  of  recently  set-out 
seedlings.  In  a  wild  corner  yellow  violets,  long  ago 
transplanted  by  Fanny  Hornblower  from  the  deep 
er  wood,  strewed  the  grass  with  gold-dust,  while 
trilliums,  wan  and  virginal,  shot  up  from  patches  of 

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fresh  fern;  but  he  took  no  pleasure  in  them.  When 
he  passed  his  own  gate  he  took  no  pleasure  in  the  bit 
of  shaven  lawn,  or  in  pansies  staring  with  wide-eyed 
innocent  faces,  or  in  jonquils  fading  to  the  pallor  of 
stars  at  dawn,  or  in  tulips  closing  their  cups  as  the 
sun  passed  westward,  or  in  irises  just  beginning  to 
show  their  fleurs-de-lis  along  the  lines  of  a  ravine 
which  was  once  a  little  brook.  Yesterday  at  this 
hour  he  had  been  in  Vandiver  Place,  trumping  up  an 
errand  to  Rufus  Legrand  in  the  hope  of  seeing  Esther. 
He  had  seen  her — for  a  minute  or  two  only — busy, 
radiant — but  neither  so  radiant  nor  so  busy  as  not  to 
have  time  to  fling  him  a  word  and  a  look  that  told 
him,  what  so  many  little  things  had  told  him  since 
her  mother  had  given  him  the  key  to  them,  that 
she  "understood."  There  was  a  beauty  and  a 
perfume  to  the  movement  and  grime  of  the  old 
street  in  which  she  dwelt  such  as  belonged  to  no 
springtide  earth  or  tree  or  flower  or  flashing  sea. 

As  he  came  now  within  sight  of  the  house  his  feet 
dragged  more  heavily.  It  was  a  long,  low,  red- 
roofed  house,  a  cottage  rather  than  a  bungalow,  with 
gables,  dormer  windows,  and  deep  verandas.  Wis 
teria  climbed  its  wooden  columns,  dropping  its  first 
mauve  clusters  along  the  eaves.  Beyond  the  house 
the  bank  broke  steeply  to  the  shore,  to  which  there 
was  access  by  a  long,  irregular  wooden  stairway.  - 

From  the  direction  of  this  stairway  Charlie 
Grace's  presence  was  announced  by  a  childish 
shout.  "Here's  papa!"  A  tall,  slim  lad  of  five, 
with  a  wooden  spade  in  one  hand  and  a  pail  in  the 
other,  came  bounding  across  the  grass,  followed 
breathlessly  and  laboriously  by  a  little  dumpling 
girl,  who  screamed  in  imitation  of  her_  brother: 

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"Here'd  papa!"  Charlie  Grace  stopped  in  the  road 
way,  nominally  to  let  the  children  reach  him,  but 
really  to  conjure  up,  if  possible,  a  heartiness  to 
match  theirs. 

He  couldn't.  Everything  that  made  heartiness 
was  paralyzed  within  him.  He  was  quite  sure 
that  the  smile  he  tried  to  assume  was  nothing  but 
a  ghastly  rictus,  for  as  the  boy  drew  near  he,  too, 
stopped,  lifting  on  his  father  eyes  that  seemed  pre 
maturely  perplexed  and  careworn.  It  was  the 
thing  that  Charlie  Grace  had  always  remarked  about 
this  boy — that  his  eyes  had  the  pained  and  question 
ing  look  a  dog's  will  get  in  a  house  of  sorrow.  They 
were  like  the  eyes  of  one  grieving — grieving  by 
intuition — grieving  for  things  he  didn't  know  about, 
and  yet  sought  to  understand. 

"Hello,  papa!" 

The  greeting  was  delivered  from  a  distance  and 
with  a  certain  guardedness. 

"Hello,  boy!     Come  here." 

The  boy  went  forward,  his  puzzled  eyes  still  lifted 
to  his  father's.  He  relaxed  none  of  his  cautiousness. 
"Uncle  Noddy's  here,  papa,  and  Aunt  Emma." 

The  little  girl,  who  had  now  toddled  up,  repeated 
this  information.  "Uncle  Noddy's  here,  papa,  and 
Auntie  Emma." 

The  father  seized  her,  tossed  her  upward,  kissed 
her,  and  set  her  down.  She  was  brown  like  Hilda, 
with  Hilda's  mournful  chestnut  eyes.  The  boy 
harked  back  to  the  Downses  and  Gunnisons.  He 
had  the  wistful  face,  tipped  with  the  long  pointed 
chin,  that  Milly  Downs  had  carried  to  her  grave 
at  Horsehair  Hill  thirty  years  before  he  was  born. 

Satisfied  with  her  greeting,  Milly  padded  along 
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toward  the  house,  while  Billy  marched  sedately  by 
his  father's  side. 

"Are  you  going  to  live  here  now,  papa?" 

The  question  being  a  leading  one,  Charlie  Grace 
hedged  in  his  reply.  "Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Because  Uncle  Noddy  says  there's  no  law  to 
make  you  if  you  don't  want  to.  What's  law, 
papa?" 

They  took  a  few  steps  in  silence.  "Should  you 
like  me  to  live  here?" 

"Y-yes." 

"Why?" 

"Because  you  take  us  out  in  the  boat — and  you 
can  whistle — and  you  can  talk  like  us.  Antonio 
can't  talk  like  us — only  just  a  very  little.  When 
he  wants  to  say  Yes  he  says  Si.  What  makes  him 
do  that,  papa?  Antonio  is  watering  the  spinach. 
Did  you  see  him  when  you  came  along?  I  helped 
to  water  them  yesterday.  You  must  always  water 
them  in  the  afternoon,  before  the  sun  goes  down. 
Did  you  know  that,  papa?" 

Charlie  Grace  approached  his  objective  point  by 
degrees.  "And  would  Milly  like  me  to  live  here?" 

"Oh,  Milly's  too  little.     She  don't  care." 

"Well,  would  mama  like  me  to  live  here?" 

There  was  long  hesitation.  "Mama  cries,"  the 
boy  said,  at  last. 

"Cries  about  me?" 

"She  says  it  isn't  about  you." 

"Did  you  ask  her?" 

He  nodded.     "M'h,   m'h!" 

"But  you   think  it  is  about  me." 

He  nodded,  with  stronger  affirmation.   "  M'h,  m'h !" 

"Why?" 

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"Oh,  because." 

Feeling  it  unwise  to  probe  this  reason  too  deeply, 
Charlie  Grace  went  on  in  silence  to  the  house. 

"Mama  is  out  here,  with  Uncle  Noddy  and  Aunt 
Emma,"  the  boy  explained,  leading  his  father  to  the 
veranda  overlooking  the  Sound. 

Emma  and  Hilda  were  seated  in  wicker  chairs — 
the  former  knitting,  the  latter  with  empty  hands. 
Sir  Osborne  leaned  carelessly  against  a  pillar  of  the 
veranda,  smoking  a  cigar.  No  one  could  look  at 
him  now  without  seeing  at  a  glance  that  he  wasn't 
an  American.  Wearing  Harris  tweeds  of  heather- 
brown,  knickerbockers,  golf-stockings,  thick  English 
country  boots,  and  a  Tarn  o'  Shanter  of  the  same 
material  as  his  coat,  he  might  have  passed  for  a 
Scottish  laird — an  effect  borne  out  by  his  stubby 
grizzled  beard  and  the  cheerful  red  of  his  com 
plexion.  The  fact  that  he  was  slighter  than  in 
youth,  heightened  his  resemblance  to  a  veteran 
sportsman  of  the  moors.  His  voice,  which  had  long 
been  growing  more  English,  had  finally — perhaps 
imperceptibly — transformed  an  American  staccato 
into  a  British  syncopation. 

"I  say,  here's  old  Charlie  now,"  was  his  excla 
mation,  as  his  brother-in-law  came  round  the  corner 
of  the  house. 

Lady  Tomlinson  tried  to  restrain  undue  self- 
consciousness.  "Why,  speak  of  the — !  Well,  I 
won't  say  what." 

Hilda,  who  sat  with  chin  resting  on  the  hand 
supported  by  the  arm  of  her  wicker  chair,  lifted  her 
soft  eyes  to  her  husband,  but  without  changing  her 
position.  "How  do  you  do,  Charlie?"  she  thought 
it  enough  to  say. 

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Charlie  Grace  kissed  his  wife  and  his  sister,  and 
shook  hands  with  Osborne.  As  he  turned  from  the 
latter  to  look  for  a  chair  Hilda  continued  quietly, 
still  without  changing  her  position:  "Osborne  and 
Emma  have  been  asking  me  if  I  should  like  a  divorce." 

He  backed  away  to  the  rail  of  the  veranda, 
leaning  against  it  like  Osborne.  While  he  was 
shocked,  he  was  also  conscious  of  a  wild  joy  that 
the  subject  was  at  last  laid  bare.  It  would  no 
longer  be  necessary  to  dodge  it;  he  could  even  own 
to  the  love  existing  between  himself  and  Esther  Le- 
grand,  since  every  one  else  seemed  to  be  aware  of  it. 
It  was  a  wonderful  thought  that  he  might  be  free 
again — free  to  break  away  from  this  strange  woman, 
these  strange  children,  this  strange  house — free  to 
go  to  her  with  whom  his  soul  was  at  home,  whose 
soul  was  at  home  with  him.  If  Hilda  consented  he 
could  do  it  at  the  negligible  cost  of  dollars  and  cents 
and  his  self-respect.  The  dollars  and  cents  were  of 
no  importance — and  as  for  his  self-respect,  he  had 
squandered  it  so  freely  that  what  was  left  of  it 
wasn't  worth  retaining.  He  had  come  to  feel  of  it 
as  the  spendthrift  feels  about  the  remnant  of  his 
fortune,  that  it  might  as  well  follow  the  rest.  There 
was  even  a  curious  recklessness  in  seeing  it  go.  There 
was  more  still  in  thinking  of  what  Esther  might 
give  up  for  him.  Holy  and  pure,  she  might  sacrifice 
her  holiness  and  her  purity.  It  was  appalling,  and 
yet  it  was  sublime.  Lifted  high  above  him,  she 
might  choose  to  come  down  and  be  no  better  than 
he.  He  got  the  same  sort  of  thrill  from  it  that,  in 
the  patriarchal  days,  a  daughter  of  men  might  have 
felt  when  one  of  the  sons  of  God  renounced  for  her 
sake  the  glories  of  heaven. 
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These  thoughts  rose  in  him  confusedly  as  he 
backed  against  the  rail,  and  in  answer  to  Hilda's 
words  said,  falteringly: 

"Well,  would  you?" 

Her  response  came  decisively.     "No.'* 

With  the  monosyllable  an  iron  door  seemed  to 
close  again  on  the  freedom  of  his  heart,  but  he  was 
able  to  say,  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone:  "Then,  that 
leaves  no  more  to  be  said." 

"It's  only  fair  to  explain,  Charlie,"  Emma  inter 
posed,  "that  Noddy  and  I  didn't  ask  Hilda  just  what 
she  seems  to  imply." 

"No,  by  Jove,"  Sir  Osborne  corroborated.  "Never 
interfere  between  husband  and  wife.  Always  get 
the  worst  of  it." 

"We  were  only  trying  to  put  before  Hilda," 
Emma  continued,  her  eyes  on  her  knitting-needles, 
which  plied  rapidly,  "the  different  courses  open  to 
her.  That's  just  one.  We're  not  recommending 
it.  Far  from  it.  But  whatever  you  and  Charlie 
do,  Hilda,  we  feel,  that,  as  those  who  stand  nearest 
to  you,  we  have  a  right  to  say  that  we  don't  con 
sider  the  present  situation  wholly  satisfactory — 
neither  Noddy  nor  I  don't — " 

"I  do."  Hilda  raised  her  head  slowly  and  looked 
at  each  of  them  in  turn.  "It's  quite  satisfactory 
to  me.  Why  shouldn't  it  be?  Charlie  is  very  kind. 
He  lets  me  live  here.  He  gives  me  money.  He 
doesn't  interfere  with  my  way  of  bringing  up  the 
children — or  care  what  we  do.  I  don't  see  how  I 
could  be  better  off,  even  if  I  were  divorced.  I 
certainly  shouldn't  be  any  the  more  free.  Nobody 
could  be  freer  than  I  am — within  reason." 

The  men  seemed  to  wait  for  Emma  to  speak.  She 

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did  so  after  some  seconds  of  watching  her  needles 
and  counting  her  stitches.  "Mind  you,  Hilda,  you 
mustn't  think  we're  urging  you  to  this  thing.  It's 
no  use  saying  we  are,  because  we  aren't.  We  should 
consider  it  a  great  calamity.  It  wouldn't  be  as 
great  a  calamity,  of  course,  as  it  used  to  be,  but  one 
likes  to  avoid  it  if  one  can.  All  we're  trying  to 
do  is  to  help  you  and  Charlie  to  work  out  some 
better  plan  than  the  one  you're  acting  on  at 
present." 

"There  couldn't  be  a  better  plan  for  me." 

"Oh,  but  I  say,  Hilda — what  about  him?" 

She  smiled.  "What  about  him,  Osborne?  Why, 
he  has  the  life  that  suits  him.  I  don't  interfere  with 
it.  I  haven't  for  years,  have  I,  Charlie?" 

It  was  Emma  who  replied.  "That  may  be  true, 
Hilda.  But  if  you  think  it's  happiness — " 

"I  don't — only  I've  long  ago  given  up  any  idea  of 
that." 

"But  perhaps  Charlie  hasn't." 

"That's  something,  Emma,  I  don't  know  anything 
about.  Charlie  doesn't  tell  me  what  he  has  given  up 
and  what  he  has  not;  so  that  I've  no  means  of 
knowing." 

"But  if  he  were  to  tell  you  now?" 

Hilda  looked  steadily  at  her  sister-in-law.  To  her 
husband  the  flame  in  her  eyes  indicated  that  she  was 
growing  dangerous.  "I  don't  believe  he'd  find  it 
worth  while  to  try.  Charlie  and  I  have  discussed  a 
good  many  things  during  the  past  six  or  seven  years 
— but  it's  always  been  as  hard  to  understand  each 
other  as  if  we  hadn't  a  common  speech.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  we  haven't  a  common  speech,  have  we,  Char 
lie?  We've  not  only  different  idioms,  but  we've  dif- 

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ferent  ideas  behind  them.  We  may  not  have  learned 
much  during  our  married  life,  but  we've  at  least 
discovered  that  much." 

She  rose,  as  if  to  put  an  end  to  the  topic.  Emma 
still  considered  the  rapid  tric-trac  of  her  knitting- 
needles.  "You  mustn't  think,"  she  began,  in  a 
conciliatory  tone,  "that  I'm  Charlie's  champion  any 
more  than  yours — " 

Hilda's  little  figure,  thrown  into  relief  against  the 
background  of  sea,  straightened  itself.  She  rested 
a  hand  on  the  back  of  the  chair  from  which  she 
had  just  risen.  "Oh,  but  I  do,  Emma.  You  are 
Charlie's  champion.  You  always  have  been.  It's 
very  natural  that  you  should  be.  I  bear  you  no  ill- 
will  for  it  whatever.  Only,  don't  think  that  I 
haven't  understood  you  all  these  years.  I've  seen 
exactly  what  my  value  was  to  you  and  Charlie. 
It's  wonderful  how  the  same  vein  of  calculation  has 
run  through  you  both.  I  suppose  it  must  go  with 
being  a  Grace.  I've  even  been  afraid  of  detecting  it 
in  my  own  children." 

Emma's  knitting  fell  to  her  lap.  It  was  one  of  the 
few  occasions  in  her  life  on  which  her  face  betrayed 
consternation.  "Hilda,  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea 
of  what  you're  talking  about." 

"Oh  yes,  you  have,  Emma.  You  know  very  well 
what  I  mean.  And  so  does  Charlie.  And  so  does 
Osborne.  You  thought  I  was  worth  while  because 
I  was  a  Penrhyn.  You  were  good  enough  to  attribute 
a  quality  to  that  name  which  didn't  go  with  Tomlin- 
son  or  Grace.  It's  possible  you  were  right.  I  don't 
know.  It's  something  I  should  never  have  spent 
my  time  considering.  I  don't  say  that  you  weren't 
always  kind  to  mama  and  me — but  I  do  say  you 

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were  kind  to  us  with  a  motive- — the  motive  of  one 
day  finding  us  useful." 

Dumbfounded  and  fascinated,  Emma  stared  up 
at  her  sister-in-law.  Osborne,  too,  gazed  at  her 
helplessly,  his  jaw  dropped,  the  hand  holding  the 
cigar  hanging  limply  at  his  side.  Charlie  Grace 
felt  himself  detached — not  more  humiliated  than  he 
had  been  before — that  would  have  seemed  out  of  the 
question — but  detached,  disinterested,  like  a  spec 
tator  at  a  play.  Hilda  went  on  calmly,  with  the 
superficial  calmness  of  a  nature  schooled  to  suppress 
everything  betraying  passion  but  the  color  in  her 
cheek  and  the  fire  in  her  eye. 

"And  you  haven't  found  us  useful.  Mama  died — 
and  I,  as  Charlie  would  say,  have  not  made  good. 
I've  not  played  up.  Let  me  say  I  might  have  done 
so  if  you  hadn't  been  so  eager  to  see  me  do  it.  I 
don't  know.  I  can't  tell.  I've  no  taste  for  that  sort 
of  thing — and  yet  if  I'd  found  that  it  would  have 
helped  Charlie — and  I'd  been  allowed  to  do  it  of  my 
own  accord —  I  don't  know.  I  can't  tell.  There 
wasn't  time  for  me  to  attempt  anything  before  I 
discovered  that  Charlie  had  married  me  for  that 
purpose — " 

"Oh  no,  Hilda.     Be  just." 

•  "Well,  partly  for  that  purpose,  then,  Charlie.  I 
suppose  you  won't  object  to  my  saying  that.  Didn't 
you  tell  me  yourself — one  day — inadvertently,  I 
admit — that  you'd  been  given  to  understand  that  a 
Hilda  Penrhyn  could  put  the  man  she  married 
anywhere  she  liked  in  New  York?  I  think  those 
were  the  words.  And  I  didn't  do  it.  I  didn't  try 
to  do  it.  I  couldn't  do  it  with  Emma  watching  me, 
and  you,  Charlie,  devoting  your  life  to  some  one  else. 

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It's  hard  enough  to  go  scheming  for  petty  and  worth 
less  things  when  one  is  driven  to  it  by  some  command 
ing  motive;  but  to  have  the  motive  snatched  away 
and  to  be  expected  to  do  it  just  the  same —  Be 
sides,  I  knew  the  things  were  petty  and  worthless.  I 
knew  it  because  I'd  always  had  them — I'd  had  them 
to  throw  away — both  in  this  country  and  in  Europe. 
I  knew  how  trivial  the  things  you  wanted  me  to 
work  for  were — how  far  beneath  me — how  far  be 
neath  you,  if  you'd  only  had  the  experience — " 

Sir  Osborne  seemed  to  think  it  time  for  him  to 
intervene.  "I  say,  Hilda,  what  the  devil's  the  use 
of  going  into  all  this  ?" 

"I'm  going  into  it  to  justify  Emma — to  justify 
you  all.  I  quite  see  how  disappointed  you  must  be 
in  me.  I  see  how  natural  it  is  that  you  should  want 
to  begin  all  over  again.  The  essence  of  your  lives  is 
your  enterprise.  When  one  thing  has  failed  you 
try  another.  And  now  that  I've  failed  you — ' 

"I've  never  said  you'd  failed  me,  Hilda,"  Charlie 
Grace  broke  in.  "If  there's  any  failure,  it's  been 
mine." 

"That's  your  kind  way  of  putting  it,  Charlie. 
I've  no  doubt  that  if  I  were  to  follow  up  the  sug 
gestion  that's  been  made  to  me  and — and  give  you 
your  freedom,  as  it's  called — you'd  let  me  make  use 
of  all  the  fictitious  devices  that  are  arranged  for  such 
emergencies.  You  might  even  provide  them — so 
that  it  should  be  I  who  would  seem  to  seek  to  be 
released  while  you  took  the  punishment.  But  in 
fact  it  would  work  the  other  way.  I  should  take 
the  punishment  while  you  would  go  free.  I  and 
my  children  should  be  thrust  into  the  background, 
almost  without  a  name,  while  you  would  "  —  she 

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swayed  slightly,  holding  with  both  hands  to  the  back 
of  the  chair — "while  you,"  she  forced  herself  to 
go  on,  "would  marry  again — some  one  who'd  carry 
out  the  ambitions  to  which  I  haven't  lent  myself — 
some  one  younger — and  more  attractive — with  the 
necessary  connections — and  aspirations  like  your 
own — " 

Charlie  Grace  seemed  to  himself  to  come  alive 
at  last.  He  stepped  forward.  "For  God's  sake, 
Hilda,  cut  it.  Emma  didn't  mean  the  things  you're 
attributing  to  her.  None  of  us  meant  them.  If 
she  suggested  that  you  might  get  a  divorce,  it  was 
because  she  thought  you'd  like  the  chance  of  recon 
structing  your  own  happiness — ' 

"By  marrying  again.  I!  Thank  you,  Charlie. 
//  ne  manquait  que  cela." 

"Well,  whatever  Emma's  reason,  it  was  a  good 
reason.  You  may  rest  assured  of  that.  But  since 
the  subject  doesn't  appeal  to  you,  let  us  drop  it — 
and  never  take  it  up  again." 

By  this  time  Emma,  too,  had  recovered  herself. 
Rising,  she  came  forward,  and  laid  her  hand  on 
Hilda's  arm.  "Let  me  go  with  you  to  your  room, 
dear,"  she  said,  soothingly.  "You're  overwrought, 
and  I  don't  wonder  at  it.  We  get  all  kinds  of  ideas 
under  an  attack  of  nerves.  I  know  I  do.  Come 
along  now,  and  let  Norah  bring  you  a  cup  of  tea." 

To  this  motherly  counsel  Hilda  might  have  ob 
jected  had  not  the  two  men  cut  the  situation  short 
by  strolling  down  the  veranda  steps.  On  the 
greensward  below  Sir  Osborne  could  presently  be 
seen  offering  his  brother-in-law  a  cigar,  which  the 
latter  lighted,  sheltering  the  match  with  his  hands. 


CHAPTER  III 

A?TER  what  they  considered  the  tactless  nature 
of  Hilda's  remarks  it  was  easiest  for  the  two 
men  to  fall  back  on  topics  indifferent.  As  they 
strolled  toward  the  edge  of  the  steep,  irregular 
bank  Osborne  plunged  into  the  subject  of  the  Jame 
son  sale  which  had  brought  him  to  New  York. 
Though  he  knew  the  theme  was  of  no  interest  to 
Charlie  Grace,  he  discussed  with  animation  the  ex 
amples  of  Utemaro  and  Hiroshige  in  the  late  Mr. 
Jameson's  collection,  comparing  them  unfavorably 
with  his  own.  The  Boston  Museum  of  Fine  Arts,  he 
said,  had  recently  paid  him  the  compliment  of  sending 
a  man  to  Montreal  for  the  express  purpose  of  inspect 
ing  his  specimens  of  Hidemaro,  and  sounding  him 
on  the  subject  of  parting  with  them.  This  he  was 
resolved  not  to  do.  With  Sir  William  Short's 
celebrated  Corean  potteries,  and  the  T'ang  figurines 
and  Wan-li  vases  of  other  magnates  of  the  T.-C.  R., 
he,  Sir  Osborne,  hoped  to  see  Montreal  soon  lead 
the  cities  of  the  world  in  its  treasures  of  Oriental 
art.  It  would  be  an  excellent  advertisement  for 
the  great  railway  system  which  had  done  so  much  to 
bring  the  East  and  the  West  together. 

From  this  topic  the  transition  was  easy  to  that  of 
business,  and,  once  started  in  this  direction,  Sir 
Osborne  could  drop  his  brother-in-law  a  few  salutary 

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hints  as  to  the  opinion  held  concerning  him  in  high 
quarters  in  Montreal. 

Charlie  Grace  followed  with  his  eye  the  banner  of 
black  smoke  flying  in  the  wake  of  a  steamer  making 
its  way  down  the  Sound.  "I  know  all  that,"  he 
said,  coolly.  "I'm  going  to  chuck  it." 

Sir  Osborne's  cigar  executed  a  rapid  movement 
toward  the  corner  of  his  mouth.  "Chuck  it?  What 
do  you  mean?" 

"Send  in  my  papers — resign — retire — give  up  the 
whole  damn  business.  Oh,  don't  I  see?  I've 
muffed  it  here.  Every  one  knows  that.  And  before 
I'm  politely  asked  to  take  a  back  seat  I  mean  to  do 
without  any  seat  at  all.  You'll  do  me  a  favor, 
Osborne,  by  letting  Sir  William  know  that — so  that 
he  won't  be  in  any  devil  of  a  rush.  If  he'll  give  me 
a  little  rope  I'll  hang  myself  of  my  own  accord  — 
which  will  do  away  with  the  need  of  unpleasantness." 
i  Sir  Osborne's  cigar  traveled  slowly  to  a  central 
position,  then  back  to  its  place  in  the  corner.  He 
made  no  attempt  to  dispute  his  relative's  conclu 
sions.  "B.  &  N.  L.  affair  gave  you  an  awful 
black  eye,"  was  his  quiet  response.  "All  felt  you 
should  have  bottled  up  Ellis  somehow.  D'ye  see?" 

"How  in  thunder  was  I  to  do  that,  when  he  was 
in  possession  of  all  the  facts  from  the  start?  Hadn't 
we  adopted  the  very  plans  he  himself  had  chalked 
out?  The  modifications  we'd  made  in  them  didn't 
amount  to  that."  He  snapped  his  fingers.  "Once 
he'd  got  wind  of  the  thing  he  had  nothing  to  do  but 
sell  his  own  ideas  to  the  Leader — and  we  were  down 
and  out.  Or,  rather,  I  was  down  and  out.  To  the 
T.-C.  R.  it  was  only  a  blow  from  a  feather — but 
it  was  enough  to  break  my  back.  I  knew  it  would 

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happen  the  day  I  saw  him  skulking  round  the  B. 
&  N.  L.  offices.  Found  out  afterward  he'd  been 
shadowing  me  for  weeks.  Had  Hartman  of  the 
Connecticut  Legislature  on  to  it,  too,  so  that  as 
soon  as  the  fuse  was  lighted  the  whole  damn  thing 
could  blow  up.  Well,  it  blew  up — and  in  the  end 
I'm  hoist  with  my  own  petard.  I  see  that  well 
enough;  and  that  the  wisest  thing  I  can  do  is — go. 
Besides,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  "that's  not  the 
only  reason." 

"Other  reason  I  suppose  is — that  girl.  There's 
a  silly  business  for  a  man  of  your  age,  if  you  like." 

"No;  it  isn't  the  girl.  In  its  way  it's  more  serious 
than  that — and  that's  serious  enough,  the  Lord 
knows.  It's  this."  He  paused  again.  "I'm  seedy. 
There's  something  wrong.  I  don't  know  what  it 
is,  but — there's  something  wrong." 

Sir  Osborne  thought  it  the  part  of  friendliness  to 
take  this  lightly.  "Oh,  stow  that,  old  man. 
You're  all  right.  Hipped,  by  Jove,  that's  what 
you  are.  Do  as  you  say.  Send  in  your  papers. 
Can  afford  it  now.  Get  away.  Go  abroad.  Get 
out  of  sight  of  that  girl.  Forget  her.  Then  come 
back;  and  you  and  Hilda  will  go  to  housekeeping 
again  as  if  nothing  'd  happened.  D'ye  see?  Why, 
there  was  a  time — Sophy  was  a  little  'un — fancy 
you  never  heard  about  that — happened  in  days  when 
we  hadn't  much  to  say  to  the  rectory — but  there 
was  a  time  when  Emma  got  it  into  her  head  that  I 
was  fooling  after  a  woman  named  Jost — Jost,  was 
it? — well,  no  matter — nothing  to  it,  d'ye  see? — 
or  hardly  anything — but  Emma  was  all  nerves  about 
it,  just  as  Hilda  is  now.  What  'd  I  do  but — 

The  reminiscence  was  cut  short  by  a  discreet 
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cough  from  Miss  Tritton,  the  governess,  who  glided 
up  behind  to  say  that  Mrs.  Grace  desired  the  gentle 
men  to  know  that  Miss  Hornblower  was  coming 
over  from  Idlewild  to  dinner,  and  would  they  kindly 
be  dressed  in  time? 

"Finish  it  later;  good  yarn,"  Sir  Osborne  con 
fided,  with  a  blink  from  beneath  his  Tarn  o'  Shanter, 
while  his  cigar  traversed  with  incredible  speed  the 
whole  outline  of  his  grizzled  mouth. 

Charlie  Grace  could  never  explain  to  his  own 
satisfaction  how  it  happened  that  after  entering  his 
room  he  found  himself  lying  on  the  floor.  Though 
he  had  been  subject  of  late  to  spells  of  vertigo,  there 
had  on  this  occasion  been  no  preliminary  faintness, 
nor  could  he  recall  slipping  or  staggering  or  actually 
falling  down.  He  was  simply  lying  on  the  floor, 
clutching  helplessly  at  a  rug.  He  had  no  difficulty 
in  getting  up  or  in  changing  his  clothes.  His  mind, 
too,  worked  with  perfect  clearness,  unless  there  was, 
for  a  few  minutes,  a  slight  haziness  regarding  the 
lapse  of  time.  He  remembered  sitting  with  Hilda, 
Emma,  and  Osborne  on  the  veranda,  and  strolling 
with  the  last  named  on  the  bit  of  greensward  above 
the  cliff;  but  both  events  seemed  to  have  happened 
a  long  while  ago.  That  passed,  however,  and  by  the 
time  he  had  dressed  and  gone  down-stairs  he  was 
entirely  himself.  The  circumstance  would  have 
been  insignificant  had  it  not  puzzled  him. 

The  dinner  went  off  more  easily  than  might  have 
been  expected.  If  Hilda  was  more  silent  than 
usual,  she  was  so  generally  silent  that  no  change 
could  be  detected.  The  company  of  Miss  Horn- 
blower  and  Miss  Tritton  relieved  any  tension  the 
family  circle  might  have  felt  had  it  been  unbroken 

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by  an  outside  presence,  and  there  was  no  denying 
that  Emma  did  wonders.  The  serenity  of  her  con 
science  with  regard  to  the  charges — the  hysterical 
charges,  she  called  them,  to  herself — Hilda  had 
brought  enabled  her  to  make  allowances  and  be 
forgiving.  Before  going  in  to  dinner  she  found  a 
minute  in  which  to  whisper  to  her  brother: 

"She's  all  right  now.  I've  talked  to  her.  I'm 
sure  she'll  see  how  wrong  it  is  of  her  to  have  such 
ridiculous  fancies.  Don't  say  anything  to  her  about 
it.  Best  let  it  die  out." 

Later  in  the  evening,  when  Fanny  Hornblower 
went  home,  Charlie  Grace  walked  up  with  her  to 
Idlewild.  It  was  a  mild,  moonlit  evening,  and  they 
strolled  slowly.  They  had  scarcely  passed  into  the 
road  before  he  seized  the  opportunity  to  say: 

"You  spoke  of  taking  Esther  away  with  you.  I 
wish  you  would." 

The  road  lying  under  overhanging  trees,  it  was 
too  dark  to  see  his  features;  but  she  turned  toward 
him  instinctively.  "So  you've  come  to  it,  too." 

"Of  course  I've  come  to  it,  too.  It  was  a  fore 
gone  conclusion." 

She  still  seemed  to  search  his  features  through 
the  darkness.  "I  wonder  what  it  is — exactly — 
that  makes  you  say  so." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  could  tell  you — exactly. 
It's  the  whole  thing." 

"Can  it  be  any  change  you've  noticed  in 
Hilda?" 

"It's  no  change  in  her.  It's  nothing  new  that 
I've  discovered  —  if  that's  what  you  want  to 
know." 

"Yes;  that  is  what  I  want  to  know — because — 
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because  I've  discovered  something.  Or,  rather,  I've 
seen  that  something  I  suspected  is  true." 

It  was  he  who  now  tried  to  search  her  face.  "Any 
thing  that  has  to  do  with  me?" 

"A  great  deal  to  do  with  you — only — I  wish  you 
could  find  it  out  for  yourself.  Perhaps  you  have. 
That's  why  I'm  asking." 

"Well,  you  needn't  ask.  I  haven't.  I  haven't 
found  out  anything  about  Hilda  in  all  the  years 
we've  been  married — unless  it  is  that  I  shall  never 
find  out  anything  at  all." 

"That's  a  pity,  isn't  it?  But  it's  not  altogether 
Hilda's  fault.  Her  nature  is  like  a  beautiful  bud 
that's  been  touched  by  an  unexpected  frost,  and  so 
never  had  a  chance  to  open.  She's  shut  right  in 
on  herself.  The  more  deeply  she  feels  the  more 
she's  impelled  to  keep  the  feeling  hidden  away. 
She  would  be  so  if  she  were  happy;  and  she's  still 
more  so  when  she's  suffering." 

They  had  taken  a  few  leisurely  steps  before  he 
said:  "Of  course,  I  can't  help  seeing  she  suffers. 
But  she  doesn't  suffer  as  much  as  she  would  if  I'd 
ever — ever  meant  anything  to  her." 

"I  wonder  if  you  know  what  you  have  meant  to 
her — what  you  mean  to  her  now." 

"Vaguely.  I  don't  know  that  I  could  put  it  to 
you  in  a  way  that  you'd  easily  understand."  He 
reflected  a  minute,  searching  for  the  right  words. 
"To  Hilda,"  he  began,  slowly,  "I'm  a  man  whom 
she  married  more  or  less  by  accident — partly  through 
my  own  over-persuasion,  partly  through  a  series  of 
circumstances  unnecessary  to  go  into.  We  both 
saw  we'd  made  a  mistake  before  a  year  was  over; 
but,  having  made  it,  we've  tried  to  stick  by  each 

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other  loyally.  I  admire  Hilda  more  than  I  can  say. 
I  don't  quite  know  what  she  feels  toward  me;  but, 
whatever  it  is,  it  isn't — love." 

They  passed  the  gate  of  the  Idlewild  property, 
into  air  heavy  with  the  scents  of  lilacs  and  syringa. 
"Would  it  make  any  difference  to  you,"  she  ventured, 
timidly,  "to  learn  that  it  is  love? — love  of  a  very 
intense  order?" 

He  chose  an  indirect  response.  "Isn't  it  a  little 
late  to  go  into  that?" 

"On  the  contrary — it  may  be  just  in  time." 

"Does  that  mean — ?" 

"It  means,"  she  said,  hurriedly,  "that  there  are  a 
good  many  things  about  Hilda  you've  yet  to  learn — 
and  one  very  important  thing." 

He  considered  this  hint,  possibly  to  avoid  taking 
it.  "If  there  was  anything  so  very  important  I 
think  I  should  have  seen  it." 

"Not  with  Hilda.  She's  so  proud — so  perversely 
proud.  She'd  find  it  hard  to  admit  that  she  loved 
you  even  if  you  loved  her.  But  she'd  rather  die  than 
acknowledge  it  when  it's  an  open  secret  that  you're 
in  love  with  some  one  else."  As  he  made  no  response 
to  this,  they  walked  on  without  speaking  till  they 
were  in  sight  of  the  lights  of  the  house,  when  she 
added,  "But  I  think  you  ought  to  know,  Charlie — 
and  I'll  take  the  responsibility  of  telling  you,  if  you 
persist  in  not  seeing  it  for  yourself — that — " 

"No;  don't  take  the  responsibility  of  telling  me 
anything,"  he  interrupted,  quickly.  "Exactly  what 
Hilda  feels  or  doesn't  feel  is  for  the  time  being 
beside  the  mark.  The  main  thing  is  that  I've  decided 
to  stand  by  her.  If  I  had  for  a  few  minutes  the 
hope  of  being  free,  it  was  only  a  dream.  Nothing 

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could  come  of  it,  of  course.  So,"  he  added,  with 
difficulty,  "if  you'll  only  take  Esther  away  I  shall 
feel — safer." 

"I've  asked  her  already — and  I  think  she'll  come." 

They  were  at  the  steps.  He  spoke  huskily.  "And 
do  it  pretty  soon,  will  you,  Fanny?  I  don't  think  it 
will  be  good  for  either  of  us  to — to  meet — very 
often." 

"I  want  to  go  next  week,"  she  said,  simply;  and 
they  bade  each  other  good  night. 

On  returning  to  his  own  house  he  skirted  the 
grounds  so  as  to  reach  the  veranda  overlooking  the 
Sound,  where  they  had  been  sitting  in  the  afternoon. 
He  needed  to  be  alone — to  smoke  and  think. 
Through  the  open  parlor  window  he  could  see  Emma 
and  Osborne  reading  the  New  York  evening  papers. 
He  supposed  Hilda  must  have  gone  to  her  room. 

It  was  not  altogether  a  pleasure  to  him  to  find  her, 
wrapped  in  a  thick  white  shawl,  seated  in  one  of  the 
wicker  veranda  chairs.  She,  too,  apparently,  needed 
to  think.  She  said  nothing,  and  made  no  motion 
as  he  approached,  thus  throwing  the  onus  of  the 
situation  on  him.  As  he  took  one  of  the  other  chairs 
and  lighted  a  cigar  he  could  think  of  nothing  to  re 
lieve  the  awkwardness  of  the  moment  but  to  remark 
on  the  beauty  of  the  moonlit  Sound,  with  its  spang 
ling  of  faint  lights. 

Ignoring  this  effort  to  keep  to  neutral  themes,  she 
said  at  once,  "Charlie,  I've  been  thinking  over 
what  you  want — and  I  can't  do  it." 

He  rose,  threw  the  extinguished  match  over  the 
railing  of  the  veranda,  and  came  back  to  his  seat. 
"What  is  it  that  I  want?"  he  asked,  then. 

"You  want  me  to  set  you  free,  don't  you?" 
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"I  thought  we  weren't  going  to  revert  to  that." 

"I  don't  see  how  we  can  help  it — this  once,  at  any 
rate.  I  think  you  ought  to  let  me  justify  myself  for 
so  humiliating  an  act  as  holding  a  man — even  a 
husband — against  his  will." 

"I  don't  think  it's  fair  to  say  it's  against  my  will 
till  you've  some  better  reason  than  any  you  have  now 
"-that  I  know  about." 

"Well,  isn't  it  against  your  will?" 

The  question  required  long  pondering.  "I  don't 
see,  Hilda,"  he  said,  at  last,  in  a  reasoning  tone, 
"that  we  shall  gain  anything  by  too  close  a  scrutiny 
of  each  other's  motives.  Since  we're  to  remain 
together — " 

"You'd  rather  it  rested  on  the  simple  fact  that  I 
won't  let  you  go." 

"I'm  just  as  willing  that  it  should  be  on  the 
assumption  that — all  things  considered — I  don't 
choose  to  go." 

He  could  see  an  impatient  movement  of  her  hand 
under  her  shawl.  "No,  please,  Charlie!  Don't  let 
us  have  any  fictions.  It's  too  late  to  flatter  a  woman 
with  chivalrous  conventionalities  when  she  comes — 
where  I  am  now.  Let  us  have  the  truth.  We're 
going  to  remain  together — as  far  as  it  is  together — 
because  I  won't  release  you.  Isn't  that  it?" 

He  was  silent. 

"And  since  that  is  it,  I  think  you  ought  to  see  that 
I  have  motives  on  my  side  as  commanding — and  as 
reasonable — as  any  you  have  on  yours." 

"I'm  not  questioning  that,  Hilda." 

She  seemed  to  brace  herself.  "I  don't  think  love 
is  everything — either  your  love  or  mine.  You  may 
love — where  you  like — and  I  may  love  where  I  like — 

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but  there  still  remain  conditions  to  which  both  your 
love  and  mine  must  be  subservient." 

"Quite  true." 

"Our  marriage  may  have  been  a  mistake — a 
wretched  mistake — and  yet  I  don't  see  that  we  can 
rectify  such  mistakes  as  that  by  turning  our  backs 
on  them,  and  pretending  we  can  begin  again,  when 
life  has  to  be  consecutive.  I  suppose  that's  what 
the  Church  means  when  it  speaks  of  the  indissolu- 
bility  of  marriage.  I  believe  in  that,  Charlie." 

He  took  his  cigar  from  his  lips  to  say,  "I'm  willing 
to  consider  our  marriage  to  be  quite  as  indissoluble — 
as  it  seems  to  you." 

"That  is,  you're  resigned  to  the  situation.  I  don't 
think  I  am;  but  I'm  convinced.  If  there  was  nothing 
else  to  convince  me,  there  would  be  the  children. 
The  fact  that  we  don't  love  each  other — " 

He  was  about  to  protest  against  this  assertion, 
but  decided  to  let  it  go.  It  seemed  to  him  that  she 
read  his  impulse,  and  waited  a  perceptible  instant 
for  him  to  act  upon  it.  When  he  didn't  her  voice 
became  a  shade  colder,  as  she  repeated: 

"The  fact  that  we  don't  love  each  other  ought  not 
to  be  visited  on  them.  They  have  their  rights — 
rights  which  we  can't  overlook.  It  seems  to  me 
that,  once  they're  in  the  world,  our  happiness  be 
comes  secondary  to  theirs.  Perhaps  that's  harder 
for  a  man  to  agree  to  than  a  woman — " 

"N-no."  After  a  puff  or  two  at  his  cigar  he  added, 
"No  man  with  any  sense  of  the  decencies  wants  to 
be  a  hound." 

She  took  a  few  minutes  to  consider  this.  "That's 
putting  our  situation  very  clearly,  Charlie,"  she  said, 
then.  "I  won't  give  you  up,  because  I  want  my 
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children  to  have  a  father;  and  you  won't  abandon 
us,  because  you  don't  want  to  be  a  hound.  That's 
getting  us  down  to  the  irreducible  minimum,  isn't 
it?" 

He  felt  obliged  to  protest  at  last,  though  he  did 
it  somewhat  lamely.  "I  should  think  we  might 
allow  ourselves  a  little  more  margin  than  that." 

She  leaned  forward,  throwing  the  shawl  back  from 
her  hands  and  arms.  Her  eyes  were  so  eager  that 
he  could  catch  their  gleam.  "A  margin  made  of — 
what,  Charlie?" 

Getting  up  from  his  chair,  he  went  to  the  edge  of 
the  veranda,  knocking  off  the  ash  of  his  cigar.  The 
act  gave  him  time  to  think.  On  turning  he  leaned 
against  the  veranda  rail,  looking  down  at  her.  Re 
membering  what  Fanny  Hornblower  had  just  been 
hinting  at,  he  would  have  been  glad  to  throw  some 
thing  like  ardor  into  his  voice  had  he  not  believed 
honesty  to  be  essential  to  the  situation.  "A  margin 
of — of  mutual  respect,"  he  said,  at  last. 

It  was  as  if  all  sorts  of  fires  suppressed  within 
her  blazed  suddenly  into  scorn.  "Respect!"  She 
threw  the  shawl  completely  from  her  shoulders,  leav 
ing  her  neck  and  bosom  bare.  "Respect,  Charlie! 
Surely  that's  the  last  thing!" 

"I  don't  see  that." 

"How  can  you  respect  a  woman  who  holds  you  by 
the  mere  quibble  of  a  legal  right  when  your  whole 
heart  is  straining  to  get  away?" 

"That's  not  a  fair  way  of  putting  it.  I  do  respect 
you.  I  honor  you  as  I  don't  honor  any  one  else  in 
the  world." 

"Then  we'll  let  that  pass.  But  how  can  I  respect 
a  man  who  has  never,  since  I  knew  him,  considered 

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any  other  human  being  except  as  a  tool  to  be  made 
use  of — and  flung  aside?  How  can  I  respect  a  man 
who  knew  his  own  mind  so  little  as  to  pursue  me  for 
years — and  persuade  me  to  marry  him,  when  he  knew 
I  had  no  faith  in  him — and  who  realized  within  a 
month  or  two  that  he  didn't  want  me?  How  can  I 
respect  a  man  who  by  his  open  preference  for  another 
woman — not  to  put  it  more  harshly  than  that — has 
made  me  a  by-word  and  an  object  of  pity  to  all  who 
knew  me?  If  I  don't  feel  more  bitterly  toward  you, 
Charlie,  it's  because  I  blame  myself  for  having 
married  you.  As  I  used  to  tell  you  in  the  days  when 
you  kept  asking  me,  I'm  one  of  the  women  who 
should  never  have  married  at  all.  I've  always  had 
a  distrust  of  men.  When  I  was  young,  and  they 
came  about  me,  I  could  see  that,  though  they  were 
theoretically  honest,  they  were  practically  base. 
Instinct  made  me  afraid  of  them.  It  made  me 
afraid  of  you.  However  much  I  cared  for  you — 
and  I  did  care  for  you — I  shouldn't  have  married 
you  if  I  hadn't  been  caught  where  your  kindness 
seemed  to  make  it  the  right  thing  to  do.  I  knew 
you'd  make  me  unhappy — and  you've  done  it." 
She  rose  and  went  up  to  him,  laying  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders,  and  looking  him  in  the  eyes.  "Oh, 
Charlie,  how  can  I  respect  you?  Surely  you  must 
see  that  if  we're  to  go  on  we  must  find  some  other 
basis  than  that!" 
"Well— what?" 

"Isn't  there  anything  you  can  think  of?" 

He   would    have    given    much    for   the   power  of 

speaking  the  word   he   knew  she  was  waiting  for. 

But  his  heart  was  dull.     It  had  just  bidden  silent 

farewell  to  Esther  Legrand,  whom  he  had  sworn  to 

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himself  never  to  see  again  if  he  could  help  it.  For 
the  minute  it  was  all  the  effort  he  could  make. 
As  she  stood  with  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  he 
avoided  her  eyes,  looking  over  her  head  toward  the 
house. 

"I'm  willing  to  accept  any  condition  you  lay 
down,"  he  said,  at  last.  Then,  as  she  did  not  speak 
at  once:  "What  is  it  to  be?" 

She  withdrew  her  hands,  throwing  out  her  arms 
with  a  fatalistic  gesture  and  letting  them  drop 
heavily  against  her  sides.  "What  can  it  be  but  that 
which  we've  said  already?  I  keep  you  for  the 
children's  sake;  and  you  stay — so  as  not  to  be  a 
hound." 


CHAPTER  IV 

A^D  so  during  the  next  few  weeks  a  new  pact 
between  Charlie  Grace  and  his  wife  got  itself 
established.  It  was  a  pact  which,  for  several 
reasons,  worked  better  than  might  have  been 
expected.  Making  up  his  mind  to  be  more  with  his 
family,  the  husband  and  father  found  domestic  habits 
asserting  their  tranquil  authority.  The  home  ceased 
to  be  alien;  Billy  and  Milly  became  his  own.  Re 
maining  at  the  bungalow  as  much  of  the  time  as  he 
could  spare  from  the  office,  he  knew  the  pleasures  of 
proprietorship  in  spring.  Tramping  about  his  twenty 
acres,  he  threw  himself  into  the  tasks  of  digging  and 
planting  and  mulching  and  making  the  beginner's 
horticultural  mistakes,  so  that  air,  exercise,  and  the 
necessity  of  mastering  subjects  he  knew  nothing 
about  worked  off  some  of  his  nervousness.  Besides, 
the  problems  of  the  garden,  together  with  the  ever- 
talked-of  possibility  of  building  a  new  house,  af 
forded  an  excuse  for  having  Ralph  Coningsby  come 
down  every  two  or  three  nights  from  New  York. 
Hilda  liked  Ralph  Coningsby.  Bearing  him  no  ill 
will  for  having  been  the  instrument  of  saddling  her 
with  the  absurd  little  house  in  Seventy-fifth  Street 
which  she  had  been  obliged  to  turn  into  a  home,  she 
liked  him  for  his  sincerity,  his  open  countenance,  his 
good  manners,  and  the  sympathy  which  came  from 
his  having  the  European  point  of  view  like  herself. 

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Charlie  Grace  liked  him,  too — liked  him  for  some  of 
the  foregoing  reasons,  but  mainly  because  he  was  the 
rejected  lover  of  Esther  Legrand.  The  fact  that 
each  had  his  special  reason  for  thinking  of  her 
brought  to  the  mind  of  the  older  man  an  element  of 
solace  into  their  companionship,  as  they  wandered 
from  one  hilltop  to  another  looking  for  building 
sites. 

For  Esther  Legrand  was  now  on  the  shores  of  the 
Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence  with  Miss  Hornblower — the 
circumstance  contributing  its  own  quality  of  relief 
to  the  general  situation.  Charlie  Grace  could  thus 
go  up  to  New  York  and  attend  to  his  business 
without  the  hourly  temptation  to  concoct  ridiculous 
errands  that  would  take  him  to  Vandiver  Place. 
Hilda  could  see  him  go  without  eating  her  heart  out 
at  home,  while  she  speculated  as  to  the  minute  he 
would  be  with  her,  and  how  they  would  meet,  and 
what  they  would  say.  When  he  came  back  she  could 
smile  with  something  that  had  an  odd  resemblance 
to  happiness  instead  of  meeting  him  with  mournful 
questioning  eyes.  Even  Billy  dropped  some  of  his 
guardedness  toward  his  papa,  treating  him  frankly 
as  man  should  treat  man. 

There  was  more  still.  When  obliged  to  spend 
two  or  three  consecutive  days  in  New  York,  Charlie 
Grace  got  into  the  habit  of  asking  his  wife  to  leave 
the  children  with  Miss  Tritton  and  keep  him  com 
pany.  He  did  this,  partly  because  he  hoped  that 
they  might  thus  grow  together  again,  partly  because 
it  pleased  her,  and  partly  because  he  was  nervous 
and  out  of  sorts.  He  made  light  of  his  indisposition 
when  Hilda  questioned  him  about  it,  and  refused  to 
see  a  doctor;  but  he  was  worried  at  heart.  It  came 

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to  him  at  times  that  if  he  could  only  see  Esther  he 
would  get  better  at  once;  but  he  was  resolute  in 
putting  that  thought  away. 

What  he  could  not  put  away,  however,  was  the 
shadow  of  the  man  Ellis  meeting  him  at  every  turn. 
Shabby,  silent,  ghostly,  inoffensive  except  for  its 
mere  presence,  it  passed  his  doorway  at  the  minute 
when  he  came  out,  or  it  was  in  the  hall  of  the  great 
building  in  which  the  T.-C.  R.  had  its  offices,  or  it 
stood  opposite  the  club  or  restaurant  where  he  went 
for  his  luncheon,  or  it  dogged  him  a  few  yards 
behind,  or  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  when  he 
took  a  walk.  There  had  been  a  time  when  the 
expression  of  the  eyes  had  been  baleful,  when  Charlie 
Grace  had  gone  in  fear  of  a  stab  or  a  shot.  But 
that  fire  went  out  after  the  series  of  articles  in  the 
New  York  Leader  exposing  the  designs  of  the  T.-C.  R. 
on  the  B.  &  N.  L.  and  rousing  the  alarm  of  power 
ful  interests  in  the  states  of  Connecticut  and  New 
York.  After  that  Ellis  grew  tame,  timid  even, 
slinking  into  sight  and  out  of  sight  like  a  whipped, 
spiritless  animal. 

It  was  so  that  he  appeared  one  midday  toward 
the  end  of  June,  gliding  among  the  rare  foot-pas 
sengers  on  the  sunny  side  of  Fifth  Avenue  while 
Charlie  Grace,  wearing  the  lightest  of  suits  and  a 
straw  hat,  strolled  on  the  other  side,  in  the  shade. 
It  was  a  day  when,  having  had  business  up-town, 
it  occurred  to  him  to  lunch  at  home,  taking  the 
little  gentle  exercise  he  felt  his  health  required  on 
the  way  there.  He  had  always  been  a  rapid  walker; 
but  of  late  walking  brought  on  a  curious  loss  of 
breath. 

He  was  just  before  the  door  of  the  Restaurant 
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Blitz  when  the  quick  movement  of  a  red  parasol  in 
front  of  him  and  the  cry  of  a  hearty  voice  arrested 
his  attention.  "Why!" 

He  echoed  the  exclamation.     "Why,  Hattie!" 

"Where  on  earth  have  you  sprung  from  ?  Haven't 
seen  you  for  years." 

There  followed  a  series  of  explanations,  given  with 
a  little  difficulty  on  both  sides.  Nevertheless, 
Hattie  felt  at  liberty  to  pout  prettily  and  look  in 
jured. 

"Well,  I  do  think  you  might  have  hunted  me  up 
now  and  then.  Oh  yes,  I  know.  Married  man 
with  a  family  and  all  that! — but  I'm  not  so  terribly 
compromising,  now  am  I  ?  Goodness  knows,  I  live 
quietly  enough.  Reggie's  kept  the  lid  on  me  as  if 
I  was  in  a  harem." 

"Then  it's  agreed  with  you — for  you  never  looked 
better." 

He  felt  obliged  to  say  this  because,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  Hattie  had  lost  much  of  her  beauty.  She 
was  stouter,  her  features  had  broadened,  and  her 
complexion,  where  cosmetics  allowed  it  to  be  seen, 
had  coarsened.  Time  had  dimmed,  too,  her  lovely, 
mischievous  eyes,  turning  their  roguery  into  a  side 
long  glance  full  of  dread.  She  was  well  dressed, 
however,  in  a  flowered  muslin,  in  the  height  of  the 
fashion  of  the  day.  A  little  winged  hat  perched 
on  her  unnaturally  blond  hair  like  a  bird  poised  for 
flight,  also  in  the  style  of  that  year. 

"I  suppose  you're  married  now."  He  knew  she 
wasn't,  but  he  said  this  because  he  could  think  of 
nothing  else. 

"Oh,  get  along,  Charlie.  Not  but  what  I  might 
be.  You've  no  idea  of  what's  been  happening  to 

448 


THE     WAY     HOME 


me.     If  you'd  only  come  to  see  me  I  would  have 

told  you." 

-    "Well,  tell  me  now." 

"How  can  I? — right  here  in  the  street? — under 
this  blazing  sun  ?  Who's  that  over  there  ?  He  gives 
me  the  creeps." 

Charlie  Grace  glanced  across  the  street.  "Oh, 
you  needn't  mind  him.  His  name's  Ellis.  He's  a 
little  cracked,  I  think." 

"Cracked?  Good  gracious!  I  can't  stand  here 
with  a  cracked  man  eying  me  like  a  lost  soul.  I'm 
hungry,  anyway.  I  was  just  going  in  to  have  some 
thing  to  eat.  Come  along  and  let  me  feed  you. 
I'll  stand  treat." 

There  were  so  many  obvious  reasons  for  making 
an  excuse,  and  each  reason  so  obviously  a  reflection 
on  poor  Hattie,  that  he  hesitated  to  put  any  of  them 
forth.  Nevertheless,  he  was  doing  his  best  to  with 
draw  gracefully  when  she  said: 

"Oh,  if  you're  going  to  hum  and  haw  like  that  I 
shall  do  without  the  pleasure  of  your  company. 
It  '11  be  a  real  deprivation,  too,  for  I  want  your 
advice  awfully.  That  is,  I  want  your  advice, 
though  I've  made  up  my  mind.  I  only  want  you 
to  tell  me  I'm  right.  So  what  do  you  say?  Is 
it  How-do-you-do?  or  Good-by?  It's  got  to  be 
one  or  the  other,  for  I'm  broiling  in  this  sun — 
and  I'm  scared  of  the  cracked  man  over  the 
way." 

Since  there  was  no  resisting  this  appeal,  he  followed 
her  in. 

"I'm  going  to  order  this  bean-feast,"  she  informed 
him,  when  they  were  seated  at  a  corner  table,  where 
she  considerately  allowed  him  to  turn  his  back  on 

449 


THE     WAY     HOME 


the    main    part  of  the   room  while   she   confronted 
it.     "  I'm  going  to  give  you — h'm — let  me  see — 

She  ran  her  eye  over  the  menu,  making  her  choice 
with  the  ease  of  the  person  seasoned  to  restaurant 
habits.  The  maitre  d'hotel,  with  a  deferential 
stoop  of  his  shoulders,  took  down  her  orders — truite 
au  bleu,  poulet  en  casserole,  Camembert,  fraises  a 
la  creme,  demi-tasse,  Johannisberg  Cabinet — as  she 
made  her  selections. 

This  business  out  of  the  way,  she  put  up  her  veil, 
pulled  off  her  gloves,  clasped  her  hands  on  the  table, 
and,  leaning  forward  nonchalantly,  examined  her  guest. 

"Well,  life  doesn't  seem  to  be  all  beer  and  skittles 
for  you,  Charlie,  any  more  than  for  the  rest  of  us," 
she  observed,  as  the  result  of  her  scrutiny.  "I  never 
saw  such  a  woebegone  face  for  a  man  who  can't  be 
quite  forty,  not  since  I  was  born." 

He  smiled.  "I'm  sorry.  I  thought  I'd  cheered 
up  a  bit  since  seeing  you." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  expect  anything  so  flattering  as  that. 
In  fact — you  won't  mind  my  saying  it,  will  you? — 
you  don't  seem  to  be  enjoying  yourself  at  all.  I 
wish  you  were,  because  it's  a  real  treat  to  me  to  see 
you,  old  boy.  There's  none  of  the  old  crowd  that  I 
could  begin  to  stand  but  you — and  Reggie,  of 
course,"  she  added,  as  an  afterthought.  "Reggie's 
changed  a  good  deal  lately — for  the  better." 

"There  was  room  for  that,  wasn't  there?"  he 
thought  himself  privileged  to  say. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  her  expression  grew  more 
serious.  "Oh,  Reggie's  not  so  bad.  I  don't  say 
he's  always  treated  me  quite  right;  and  he's  certainly 
shilly-shallied  about  things  I  wanted  —  once;  but 
he's  not  the  cad  some  fellows  are — not  by  a  lot." 

450 


THE     WAY     HOME 


"It's  something  to  be  able  to  say  that  much." 

"And  now  he's  really  trying  to  turn  over  a  new 
leaf." 

He  grew  curious.  "A  new  leaf — to  what  extent?" 
He  tried  to  put  the  case  politely.  "Not  to  such  a 
degree  as  would — affect  you,  I  hope." 

She  crumbled  a  bit  of  bread.  "Well — y-yes.  I 
should  be  included." 

He  still  tried  to  express  himself  with  delicacy. 
"To  your  advantage,  I  trust." 

She  played  scales  with  her  left  hand  on  the  table 
cloth.  "That's  what  I  want  to  ask  your  advice 
about.  You'll  hardly  believe  me  when  I  tell  you 
what  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  do.  You'll  think 
me  an  awful  fool — which  I  am.  And  yet  if  you  do 
think  me  a  fool  I  hope  you  won't  say  so.  You  see, 
I  want  you  to  tell  me  I'm  right  whether  you  believe 
it  or  not." 

"I  see.  It's  a  very  natural  way  of  seeking 
counsel.  Only  every  one  is  not  as  frank  about  the 
method  as  you,  Hattie." 

"Oh,  I'm  frank.  I  see  things  with  my  eyes  wide 
open,  too.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  for  me  if 
I  didn't;  but  I  do." 

A  catch  in  her  voice  caused  him  to  glance  up 
quickly.  He  could  have  sworn  there  was  a  shimmer 
of  tears  in  her  fine  eyes.  A  tear,  in  fact,  hung  like 
a  dewdrop  on  one  of  her  dark  lashes.  He  felt 
oddly  moved. 

"Look  here,  Hattie,"  he  said,  conscious  of  the 
indiscretion  of  his  inquiry;  "he's  good  to  you,  isn't 
he?— still?" 

She  flicked  away  the  tear  with  her  hand.  "Oh, 
Lord,  yes.  It's  the  other  way  round.  But  here's 


THE     WAY     HOME 


the  trout.  I  can't  tell  you  just  now.  We'll  eat; 
and  talk  about  it  later." 

The  truite  au  bleu  was  served — silver-gray,  inno 
cent,  delicate — a  morsel  for  a  princess  in  a  fairy  tale. 
In  glasses  of  the  evanescent  green  of  the  first  spring 
tide  grass  the  Johannisberg  Cabinet  was  of  the 
crystal  clarity  only  seen  in  the  saffron  shades  of 
sunset.  Charlie  Grace  and  Hattie  Bright,  mindful 
perhaps  of  early  privations,  ate  and  drank  with  a 
kind  of  reverence — a  reverence  that  moved  the  former 
to  raise  his  glass  and  say  with  smiling  wistfulness: 

"Here's  to  old  St.  David's,  Hattie,  and  Vandiver 
Place." 

She,  too,  raised  her  glass,  but  for  the  minute  it  was 
destined  not  to  reach  her  lips.  She  held  it  poised; 
she  held  it  as  if  her  hand  had  been  suddenly  para 
lyzed;  her  eyes  turned  toward  the  door. 

"What's  the  matter?"  her  companion  asked,  set 
ting  the  glass  he  had  drained  down  on  the  table. 
"You  look  as  if  you  were  seeing  a  ghost." 

"I  am,"  she  said,  quietly,  without  taking  her  gaze 
from  the  doorway.  "There's  a  lady  coming  in — 
No,  don't  look  round! — she's  asking  for  you,  I  think 
— and  I'm  almost  sure  it's — Mrs.  Grace." 

He  felt  the  blood  rushing  back  to  his  heart.  "Oh, 
nonsense!"  he  tried  to  say,  but  his  tongue  failed 
him. 

"It  is  Mrs.  Grace,"  Hattie  continued,  in  a  dead 
voice.  "I've  only  seen  her  once — but  I'm  very 
nearly  sure.  What  can  I  do?  I  must  be  got  out 
of  this.  No;  it's  too  late.  She  knows  all  about  me 
and  who  I  am.  Fanny's  told  her.  The  head  waiter 
is  bringing  her  over.  For  God's  sake,  Charlie,  what 
are  you  going  to  say?  It's  no  use  saying  anything. 

452 


HE     HAD     TURNED,— TO     SEE     HILDA 


THE     WAY     HOME 


Your  face  is  like  a  sheet.  Oh,  brace  up,  man! 
You'll  make  her  believe — " 

But  he  had  turned.  He  had  turned  to  see  Hilda, 
all  in  white,  except  for  a  black  hat,  threading  her 
way  between  the  tables  and  coming  toward  them. 
The  impulse  to  make  a  dash  for  it  was  counteracted 
by  one  of  anger  that  she  should  spy  upon  him  thus 
and  track  him  down.  It  was  in  this  spirit  he  rose, 
holding  by  the  back  of  his  chair  and  turning  half 
round,  as  she  approached.  Hattie  Bright,  too,  rose, 
the  old  beauty  of  expression  coming  back  to  her  in 
the  moment  of  humiliation  and  helplessness. 

Led  by  the  maitre  d'hotel,  Hilda  was  within  a  few 
yards  of  their  table  before  she  actually  saw  them. 
She  hesitated,  then,  in  a  brief  instant  of  embarrass 
ment.  It  was  only  an  instant — just  long  enough  to 
collect  her  forces  as  woman  of  the  world.  He  saw 
then  that  whatever  her  astonishment  she  put  it 
momentarily  aside  in  order  to  meet  this  public 
emergency  with  spirit.  He  knew  by  her  smile  that 
she  would  ignore  the  fact  that  Hattie  was  what  she  was. 

"Oh,  Charlie,  I'm  so  sorry  to  be  late.  I  came  the 
very  minute  I  got  your  message.  Eugene  happened 
to  have  the  motor  at  the  door,  and  I  only  put  on  a 
hat.  But  Fm  glad  you  didn't  wait  for  me."  She 
turned  to  Hattie,  holding  out  her  hand.  "And  this 
is  Mrs.  Bright.  I  know  you  and  Charlie  are  old 
friends.  Fanny  Hornblower  told  me  the  other  day 
that  you  and  she  and  Charlie  were  all  confirmed 
together.  Sha'n't  we  sit  down?  I'll  begin  wherever 
you  are." 

.  A  third  chair  being  brought  and  a  third  place  laid, 
they  sat  down.  "We'd  only  just  begun,"  Charlie 
Grace  found  voice  to  say. 

453 


T  H  E-    IV  AY     HOME 


Fortunately,  there  was  a  remaining  truite  au  bleu, 
so  that  Hilda  could  be  served  at  once.  She  talked 
of  the  message  she  had  received.  It  must  have 
been  delayed  in  transmission  from  the  office,  she 
said,  since  Charlie  had  had  time  to  come  all  the 
way  up  from  lower  Broadway.  No;  she  hadn't 
taken  it  at  the  telephone  herself;  a  housemaid  had 
done  that.  It  was  one  of  the  gentlemen  at  Mr. 
Grace's  office,  the  maid  reported,  who  called  up  to 
say  that  Mr.  Grace  would  be  glad  if  Mrs.  Grace 
would  join  him  and  a  lady  friend  at  lunch  at  the 
Blitz  as  soon  as  possible.  That  was  all.  She  had 
come  on  the  instant,  waiting  only  to  put  on  a  hat, 
Eugene  having  the  motor  at  the  door. 

During  this  account  there  were  instants  when 
Charlie  Grace  endeavored  to  break  in  and  explain 
that  he  hadn't  sent  any  message  at  all;  but  at  each 
of  such  moments  Hattie  was  able  to  make  him  some 
desperate  signal  with  the  lips  or  the  eyes  to  hold 
his  peace.  As  to  the  innocence  of  Hilda's  move 
neither  he  nor  she  could  feel  wholly  at  ease,  and 
yet  it  was  patent,  to  her  at  least,  that  if  Mrs.  Grace 
could  only  believe  that  they  had  invited  her  to 
join  them  their  own  position  was  assured.  It  was 
impossible  to  glance  at  Hattie  without  seeing  that 
she  was  never  in  so  uncomfortable  a  situation  in  her 
life.  She  continued  to  nibble  at  her  truite  au  bleu, 
but  she  might  have  been  eating  grass. 

Even  more  could  have  been  said  of  Charlie  Grace. 
For  him  the  truite  au  bleu  was  grass;  he  couldn't 
eat  it  at  all.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  Johannisberg 
Cabinet  his  nerve  would  have  failed  him  utterly. 
By  way  of  helping  out  a  conversation  of  some  sort 
he  told  incoherently  how  he  had  had  business  up- 

454 


THE     WAY     HOME 


town,  how  he  had  decided  to  go  home  to  lunch, 
how  he  had  been  walking  slowly  along  Fifth  Avenue, 
and  how — but  Hattie's  dumb,  piteous  signals,  while 
Hilda's  eyes  happened  to  be  turned  to  her  plate, 
arrested  him.  As  plainly  as  words  could  express 
it  she  was  saying:  "For  God's  sake,  Charlie,  don't 
give  the  show  away!"  so  that  he  stopped  as  in 
coherently  as  he  had  begun. 

It  was  then  that  Hattie  had  her  inspiration.  It 
came  with  a  flash,  as  could  be  seen  in  the  sudden 
clearing  of  her  face.  Once  having  got  the  main 
idea,  she  plunged  in  boldly,  trusting  to  luck  for  the 
details.  It  was  a  juncture  at  which  one  was  obliged 
to  trust  to  luck,  since  there  was  no  leisure  for  think 
ing  a  subject  out. 

"And  then  he  met  me,  Mrs.  Grace.  It  was  just 
an  accident.  And  yet  if  it  had  been  an  answer  to 
prayer  I  couldn't  have  met  any  one  I  wanted  to  see 
more.  For  the  last  month  or  two  I've  been  wishing 
and  wishing  I  could  get  in  a  word  with  him." 

Hilda  looked  up  with  soft,  interested  eyes.  Her 
husband  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  so  pretty  or 
so  young.  Neither  had  he  ever  admired  her  more 
than  in  this  trying  minute,  when  she  had  sunk  all 
hesitations  and  questionings  to  show  herself  a  lady 
in  the  truest  senses  of  the  word.  It  was  the  sort 
of  rising  to  the  occasion  that  appealed  to  him. 

"How  nice!"  was  all  Hilda  said,  but  the  tone 
made  it  enough. 

Hattie  felt  encouraged  to  go  on.  "Yes;  wasn't 
it?  I  do  want  his  advice  so  much.  You  see, 
Charlie — I  mean,  Mr.  Grace — 

"Oh,   call  him  Charlie  if  you  like." 

"Well,  he's  one  of  the  oldest  friends  I've  got — 
455 


THE     WAY    HOME 


and  one  of  the  truest.  That  means  a  lot  to  me, 
Mrs.  Grace.  He  may  be  what  you  like — I  don't 
care — he's  a  true  friend — and  has  been  since  he 
was  so  high.  And  when  you  can  say  that  of  a  man 
— whatever  his  faults — and  I  don't  say  he  hasn't 
got  them — " 

Hilda  smiled  as  she  helped  herself  to  the  poulet 
en  casserole.  "No;  nor  I." 

"But  when  you  can  say  that  of  a  man — you  say 
a  lot.  Don't  you?  A  man  is  like  an  apple,  I  always 
say.  When  it's  sound  at  heart,  you  can  put  up 
with  a  few  spots  on  the  outside.  With  a  woman, 
I  suppose,  it's  different;  she  can  be  what  she  likes 
at  heart  so  long  as  the  outside  is  rosy  and  smooth. 
But  I've  had  more  to  do  with  men,  and  I've  got  to 
know  them.  And  Charlie — Mr.  Grace — is  one  of 
the  truest — in  spite  of  his  faults." 

A  faint  color  stole  back  into  the  hero's  cheek. 
He  began  to  admire  Hattie,  too.  Who  knew  but 
she  might  yet  carry  off  the  situation?  "I  should 
like  your  kind  words  a  little  better,  Hattie,"  he 
laughed,  applying  himself  to  the  chicken,  "if  you 
didn't  keep  harping  so  much  on  my  weaknesses." 

Hattie  ignored  this  to  continue  the  conversation 
with  Hilda.  "And  when  I  found  myself  in  this 
peculiar  situation — in  which  I  am,  Mrs.  Grace — 
a  very  peculiar  situation — I  thought  there  was  no 
one  whose  advice  I  should  like  better  than  his. 
I  don't  want  him  to  tell  me  what  to  do;  I've  made 
up  my  mind  about  that  already.  I  want  him  to  tell  me 
I'm  right — because  in  many  ways  I  know  I'm  a  fool." 

Hilda  smiled  again,  the  old  dreamy  smile  her 
husband  had  not  seen  for  a  long  time.  "I  hope 
he'll  come  up  to  your  expectations." 

456 


THE     WAY     HOME 


"And  so,"  Hattie  went  on,  "when  I  found  him 
passing  the  door  here,  as  I  was  coming  in,  I  couldn't 
help  nabbing  him  on  the  spot.  I  just  couldn't 
help  it.  Oh,  he  tried  to  get  away — but  I  wouldn't 
let  him.  And  then — "  Her  tone  changed;  she 
took  on  the  pitiful  look  charged  with  a  dash  of 
roguery  which  was  still  effective.  "And  then, 
Mrs.  Grace,  I  did  an  awful  thing.  I  don't  know  if 
you'll  ever  forgive  it.  Something  told  me  that 
you  might  help  me,  too.  You  know  Fanny  so  well 
— and  you've  lived  so  much  abroad — and  all  that. 
I — I  telephoned  to  you.  Yes;  it  was  me.  Did  I 
say  it  was  from  the  office?  Well,  perhaps  I  did. 
I  was  so  flustered  over  it  that  I  don't  know  what 
I  said.  I  just  told  the  young  man  who  called  up 
your  house  to  say  anything  that  came  into  my 
head.  I'm  like  that,  as  you  can  see.  Oh,  Charlie 
didn't  want  me  to,"  she  declared,  fixing  big  innocent 
eyes  on  the  man,  who,  judging  from  his  countenance, 
was  groping  wildly  after  his  own  cue  in  this  extra 
ordinary  tale.  Perhaps  she  saw  this,  for  she  said, 
at  once:  "Now,  don't  you  speak.  You  didn't 
want  me  to  drag  Mrs.  Grace  into  the  thing  at  all — 
but  I  justfelt  she'd  help  me.  I  think  that,  as  a  rule, 
men  feel  more  for  women  than  other  women  do; 
but  now  and  again  you  realize  that  a  woman  will 
understand  you  as  a  man  can't.  Don't  you  think 
so,  Mrs.  Grace?" 

Hilda  having  assented  to  this,  Hattie  went  on. 
"And  now  I'll  come  to  the  point.  You  clear  out," 
she  added  to  the  waiter,  who  stood  nearer  than  she 
cared  for.  "Go  and  see  that  that  Camembert  is 
good — ripe,  but  not  too  ripe.  The  last  time  it  had 
run  to  oil.  I'll  come  to  the  point,"  she  continued, 
30  457 


THE     WAY     HOME 


turning  again  to  her  guests.  "Fanny  wants  Reggie 
to  marry  me." 

Looking  at  his  wife,  Charlie  Grace  saw  the  faintest 
flush  of  color  in  her  cheek,  and  the  same  degree  of 
embarrassment  in  her  manner.  It  was  the  first 
time  in  her  life  she  had  come  into  contact  with 
this  special  situation.  Her  eyes  were  on  her 
knife  and  fork  as  she  said:  "Yes;  so  she's  told 
me." 

"She  says,"  Hattie  pursued,  "that  after  all  these 
years  I'm  Reggie's  wife  before  God." 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause  before  Hilda  said, 
with  eyes  still  downcast,  "I  should  think  there 
might  be  that  way  of  looking  at  it." 

"Well,  it's  not  mine,"  Hattie  said,  bluntly.  "I'm 
not  his  wife  before  God.  I'm  not  his  wife  before 
any  one."  Having  allowed  this  statement  to  sink 
in,  she  added:  "And  I'm  not  going  to  be." 

Hilda  being  unprepared  to  comment  on  this 
decision,  Charlie  Grace  felt  it  incumbent  on  him 
to  furnish  a  remark.  "I  should  think  that  might 
be  a  disappointment  to  Reggie,"  was  the  best  he 
found  himself  able  to  do. 

"It  '11  be  more  of  a  disappointment  to  me,"  Hattie 
declared,  promptly.  "It's  what  I've  looked  for 
ward  to  for  more  years  than  I  can  count — and  now 
I'm  going  to  turn  it  down.  Can  you  imagine  a 
woman  being  such  a  fool?" 

"Wouldn't  that  depend  on  her  motive?"  Hilda 
suggested,  shyly. 

"My  motive  is  that  Reggie's  trying  to  turn  over 
a  new  leaf — and  I'm  not  going  to  be  the  one  to  stop 
him." 

Charlie  Grace  raised  his  eyebrows.  "Wouldn't 
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part  of  the  turning  of  the  new  leaf  be — in  what 
Fanny  proposes?" 

Hattie  continued  to  be  blunt.  "No,  it  wouldn't. 
Reggie  couldn't  turn  over  a  new  leaf  with  me. 
What  difference  could  a  few  prayers  and  a  ring  make 
to  us?  I  don't  want  to  say  anything  against  the 
prayers;  but  the  ring  would  be  ridiculous — now. 
It  might  please  me  to  have  it  on  my  ringer;  but  it 
would  only  chain  Reggie  to  the  past.  There's  too 
much  onion  in  this  casserole,"  she  complained  to 
the  waiter,  who  was  passing  the  dish  for  the  second 
time.  "I've  spoken  of  that  before.  Aren't  cooks 
funny?"  she  continued,  addressing  herself  specially 
to  Hilda.  "Onion  is  one  of  the  things  they  never 
know  how  to  use  properly.  It's  either  too  much 
or  none  at  all.  And  it's  the  past  he's  trying  to 
break  away  from,  poor  boy.  He's  tried  to  break 
away  from  it  before,"  she  went  on,  tearfully,  "but 
I  was  in  the  way.  He  couldn't  get  beyond  me  or 
over  me  or  through  me.  And  so  he  felt  it  was  no 
use.  He's  weak,  Reggie  is;  but  he  has  his  good 
points." 

"You're  fond  of  him?"  Hilda  queried,  tremulously. 

/'Yes,  God  help  me."  Hattie  laughed,  though 
tears  quivered  on  her  lashes.  "It's  queer  the  way 
the  tables  are  turned.  There  was  a  time  when  he 
was  more  fond  of  me  than  I  was  of  him;  and  now  it's 
the  other  way  round.  When  he  was  fond  of  me  he 
wouldn't — he  wouldn't  do — what  Fanny  wants  us 
to  do;  and  now  that  he — doesn't  care  so  much — 
he's  ready  to.  Isn't  that  queer?" 

"That  is,"  Hilda  said,  "you're  both  coming  to 
see  things — differently.  We  do  as  we  grow  older. 
As  far  as  Fanny  is  concerned — " 

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Hattie  fanned  herself  with  the  menu.  "Oh, 
Fanny's  at  the  bottom  of  the  whole  thing — with 
both  of  us.  If  I'm  going  to  be  a  fool — and  I  am — 
it's  because  she's  made  me  one.  If  she'd  only 
opposed  the  thing — as  any  other  woman  in  the  world 
would  have  done — I'd  have  carried  Reggie  off  under 
her  very  nose — if  I  could.  But  she's  so  good,  and  so 
sweet,  that  I  just  can't  take  her  at  her  word.  I — 
just — can't." 

The  break  in  Hattie's  voice  brought  a  misty 
radiance  into  Hilda's  eyes.  "I  know  she'd  love 
you — like  a  sister." 

"Oh,  I  know  she  would.  But  she's  not  the  only 
one.  I  guess  I  can  love  like  a  sister,  too — if  I'm 
put  to  it.  There  are  sisters  you'd  just  as  soon  see 
out  of  the  way — and  I'm  going." 

"You're  going,  Hattie?"  Charlie  Grace  asked, 
in  some  anxiety.  "Where?" 

Hattie  spoke  resolutely.  "I'm  going  abroad. 
I've  never  been  abroad,  and  I've  always  wanted  to 
go.  Now  I  shall  get  my  way." 

Hilda  looked  at  her  pityingly.  "You're  going 
alone?" 

Hattie  nodded.  "Any  one  who'd  come  with  me 
I  shouldn't  want.  And  any  one  I  should  want 
wouldn't  come  with  me.  I  shall  have  to  make  the 
best  of  my  own  company.  Fanny's  in  Prince 
Edward  Island — that's  where  my  father  and  mother 
came  from — and  Reggie's  in  Europe.  They'll  be 
back  by  the  beginning  of  September,  expecting  to 
find  me.  But  they  won't.  The  nest  '11  be  empty. 
I  shall  have  taken  the  southern  route  to  Naples." 

The  strawberries  were  passed  and  partaken  of 
in  silence.  Each  of  the  three  had  special  matter 

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for  thought.  That  Hattie  found  it  difficult  to  dis 
entangle  the  true  from  the  fictitious  elements  in 
her  tale  was  evident  to  Charlie  Grace  when  she 
said:  "It's  because  I'm  going  to  Europe  that  I 
thought  of  you,  Mrs.  Grace.  You  know  so  much 
about  the  countries  over  there.  I  thought  you 
might  be  able  to  tell  me  of  some  place  where  I  could 
live  quietly — and  not  attract  attention.  I  shall 
call  myself  Mrs.  Pillsbury — a  widow.  That's  what 
I  am.  Mr.  Pillsbury  is  dead,"  she  informed  Charlie 
Grace.  "The  last  time  I  mentioned  him  to  you  I 
wasn't  sure;  but  I've  found  out.  So  that  I'm  quite 
a  widow." 

"I  could  let  you  have  a  number  of  addresses," 
Hilda  said,  earnestly,  "and  tell  you  all  sorts  of  things 
to  do.  And  if  you  ever  went  to  Nice  I  could  give 
you  letters  to  my  friends  Canon  and  Mrs.  Lang- 
horne.  They're  darlings — and  they'd  be  so  good 
to  you." 

Hattie  grew  thoughtful.  "I  should  like  that. 
I  want  to  get  back  to  church  again.  I  miss  it.  I 
do  go  sometimes — to  St.  Agnes's.  The  preaching 
is  very  good,  and  the  music  is  lovely.  Of  course  I 
can  only  accept  as  much  of  the  sermon  as  I  can — 
apply;  but  the  singing  always  comforts  me.  It 
takes  me  back." 

Later,  as  they  were  saying  good-by  in  the  outer 
hall  of  the  restaurant,  Hattie  displayed  the  same 
confusion  between  fact  and  invention.  "You'll 
never  forgive  me,  Mrs.  Grace,  for  calling  you  up. 
It's  the  most  unwarranted  thing  I  ever  did.  But, 
of  course,  if  Charlie  hadn't  happened  here  I  shouldn't 
have  dreamed  of  such  a  thing.  After  all,  when  a 
woman  is  unhappy  she's  a  right  to  call  any  one  her 

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friend,   hasn't   she?     It's   unhappiness   that   makes 
the  whole  world  kin,  I  always  say." 

It  seemed  to  Charlie  Grace  that  as  his  wife  took 
Hattie's  hand  in  both  her  own  her  face  kindled. 
"You've  done  me  the  greatest  honor  I've  ever  had 
in  my  life,"  he  could  hear  her  say.  "It's  incon 
ceivable  that  any  one  could  have  turned  to  me  for 
help.  I  can't  tell  you  what  it  means  to  me.  It's 
as  though  something  in  me  had  been  unlocked — 
and  I'd  been  set  free." 

As  Hilda  passed  first  through  the  revolving  door 
into  the  street,  Hattie  had  time  to  whisper:  "She's 
the  loveliest  thing  God  ever  made.  Shall  you  ever 
forget  the  way  she  turned  to  me  and  said,  'And 
this  is  Mrs.  Bright'? — so  natural — just  as  if  I  was 
— anybody  else.  Charlie  Grace,  if  you  ever  give 
me  away  about  the  lie  I've  told  her — " 

A  shake  of  his  head  and  a  pursing  of  his  lips  reas 
sured  her,  for,  as  Hilda  looked  back,  there  was  no 
time  to  say  more.  On  the  pavement  they  shook 
hands  again,  while  Hattie  entered  one  of  the  restau 
rant  motors  and  rolled  away.  As  the  vehicle 
swept  to  the  middle  of  the  street  Charlie  Grace 
caught  sight  of  Ellis  shambling  off  from  the  edge  of 
the  opposite  pavement. 

"That's  it,  by  George,"  he  said  to  himself.  "That's 
where  the  message  came  from.  He  thought  he'd 
got  me  into  a  trap;  and  so  he  would  have  if — " 

But  Hilda  had  taken  her  place  in  another  of  the 
house  motors,  and  he  had  to  follow  her.  As  he 
seated  himself  by  her  side  he  saw  she  was  wiping 
away  tears. 

"That's  a  good  woman,  Charlie,"  she  said,  half 
sobbing. 

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"And  you're  a  better  one,"  he  declared,  fervently. 
"By  God,  Hilda,  you've  been  a  trump." 

"What  else  could  I  do  in  a  public  place  like  that? 
Besides,  I  knew  you  must  have  some  good  reason 
in  asking  me  to  come." 

With  an  ardor  he  had  not  shown  her  in  many 
weeks  he  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed  her. 

Turning  to  peer  through  the  little  window  at  the 
back,  he  could  see  Ellis's  shrunken  figure  doddering 
down  the  street. 

"He  thought  he'd  got  me  at  last!  Poor  devil! 
He  must  have  seen  by  the  way  we  shook  hands  with 
Hattie  how  well  the  trick  worked." 

But  the  results  of  Ellis's  revenge  were  not  yet 
made  wholly  manifest. 


CHAPTER  V 

THAT  evening  Charlie  Grace  found  himself  on 
the  floor  of  the  library,  while  his  wife  bent 
over  him,  crying:  "Charlie!  Charlie!  What's  the 
matter?" 

He  was  sure  he  hadn't  been  unconscious,  and,  as 
on  the  former  occasion,  he  could  remember  no 
preliminaries  to  his  fall,  except  a  little  dizziness. 
To  Hilda's  frenzied  questioning  he  was  able  to 
reply  coolly,  "Nothing;  nothing,"  while  he  raised 
himself  and  got  up.  Having  brushed  the  dust  from 
the  sleeves  and  front  of  his  dinner-jacket,  he  dropped 
into  the  nearest  arm-chair.  Hilda  sank  to  her  knees 
beside  him,  seizing  his  hands. 

"Oh,  what  is  it,  Charlie?  I  was  on  the  stairs — 
and  heard  you  fall.  Aren't  you  hurt?  You  fell 
so  heavily.  What  is  it?" 

"Nothing,  nothing,"  he  assured  her.  "I've  done 
it  before.  It  doesn't  mean  anything.  It's  just 
—a  trick." 

"No;  it's  more  than  that.  You're  not  telling 
me  everything.  You're  suffering.  You're  ill." 

It  was  to  give  her  courage  that  he  said:  "I'm 
not  ill.  I'm  only — out  of  sorts." 

She  clung  to  him  beseechingly.  "Are  you  out 
of  sorts  because  you're — unhappy?" 

"Why  do  you  ask  me  that?" 

"Because — oh,  because,  Charlie,  I  think  it's  so." 
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His  head  sank  till  his  chin  rested  on  his  shirt-front. 
He  avoided  her  imploring  eyes  by  staring  at  the 
floor.  "Even  if  it  was  so,"  he  muttered,  in  order 
to  give  her  an  answer  of  some  sort,  "it  wouldn't 
help  matters  to  discuss  it.  So  please  don't  let  us 
talk  of  it  any  more." 

"How  do  you  know  it  won't  help  matters?  You 
surely  wouldn't  be  unhappy — and  shut  me  out  of 
your  unhappiness." 

"I  wouldn't  shut  you  out  if  it  would  do  any  good 
to  let  you  in.  But  it  wouldn't.  I  shall  be  all  right 
in  a  day  or  two.  I'm  all  right  now." 

He  tried  to  put  her  from  him  so  as  to  rise,  but 
she  clung  the  more  desperately.  "No,  Charlie. 
You're  not  all  right  now.  You'll  not  be  all  right  in 
a  day  or  two.  It's  deeper  than  that.  Suppose — " 
she  drew  back  from  him  slightly,  taking  his  face 
between  her  hands  and  raising  his  head  so  as  to  make 
him  look  at  her — "suppose  you  couldn't  keep  me 
out — that  I  was — was  in — already?" 

"Well?     What  then?" 

"Then  you  couldn't  keep  me  from  sharing  your — 
your  trouble" — she  stumbled  at  the  word — "could 
you?" 

"I  don't  need  to  try,  Hilda,  darling — because 
you  can't.  If  there  is  a  trouble — and  I  don't  say 
there  is,  mind  you — it's  one  I've  got  to  put  through 
alone." 

"We'll  see."  She  rose  from  her  knees  and  went 
aimlessly  to  the  other  side  of  the  room.  "We'll 
see,"  she  said,  again. 

He  lifted  his  head.  His  face  betrayed  some 
curiosity.  "We'll  see — what?" 

She  stood  with  finger-tips  just   touching  the  top 
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of  the  Renaissance  desk,  whch  occupied  the  space 
between  them.  "I  don't  know  but"  —  her  tone 
grew  firmer — "but  we  shall  see — something.  I'm 
your  wife,  Charlie.  No  one  can  take  away  my 
right  to  love  you — and — and — help  you — to  the 
uttermost."  She  seemed  to  remember  that  only  a 
few  weeks  earlier  she  had  refused  to  help  him,  for 
she  added,  quickly:  "Now  that  I  see  how  you're 
suffering." 

He  got  up,  with  a  deadness  of  limb  he  managed 
to  conceal  from  her,  and  crossed  the  room  to  where 
she  stood.  "You  don't  see  how  I'm  suffering," 
he  said,  laying  his  hands  on  her  shoulders,  and  look 
ing  with  kindly  intentness  into  her  eyes.  "You 
see  only  what  you  read  into  me.  But  if  you're 
right  at  all,  Hilda,  and  you  do  want  to  help  me, 
you'll  be  most  successful  in  never  speaking  to  me 
about  it  again.  Will  you  promise  me  that?" 

She  continued  to  stand  meekly,  with  his  hands 
on  her  shoulders,  while  she  meditated  her  reply. 
"Yes,"  she  said,  at  last,  with  some  firmness;  "I  will 
promise  that." 

The  next  day  Hilda  was  obliged  to  return  to  the 
bungalow  and  the  children,  while  Charlie  Grace 
remained  in  town.  He  was  the  less  reluctant  to 
see  her  go  because  of  having  made  up  his  mind  that 
the  moment  had  come  for  consulting  Dr.  Furnival. 
He  did  so  that  afternoon,  taking  his  place  in  the 
waiting-room  with  three  or  four  other  patients  and 
whiling  away  the  hours  with  the  comic  papers  and 
odd  copies  of  the  previous  year's  magazines. 

It  was  part  of  the  confidence  Dr.  Furnival  inspired 
that  he  grudged  no  time  to  those  who  consulted  him. 
Even  to  the  bored  occupants  of  the  anteroom  there 

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was  something  impressive  in  the  lengthy  conferences 
— silent,  mysterious,  oracular — to  which  each  of  their 
number  was  summoned  in  turn.  The  very  entries 
and  exits  were  awed,  discreet,  like  those  to  and  from 
the  confessional.  It  was  difficult  for  Charlie  Grace 
to  realize  that  the  oracle  approached  so  reverently 
was  no  other  than  his  old  friend,  Freddy  Furnival, 
of  whom  he  knew  so  many  of  the  intimate  secrets 
of  early  years,  and  whose  present  life,  in  its  more 
private  aspects,  was,  according  to  Hattie  Bright, 
so  droll. 

None  the  less,  he  felt  some  reverence  when  his 
own  turn  came  to  enter  the  quiet  room.  It  was  a 
large  square  room  with  a  desk  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor.  The  doctor's  revolving  chair  and  the  pa 
tient's  chair  at  the  corner  of  the  desk  were  the  only 
pieces  of  furniture  not  ranged  carefully  along  the 
sides.  This  solemnly  spacious  effect  was  heightened 
by  the  thick  blue-red-and-green  Turkey  rug,  deaden 
ing  the  footfall.  Furny  sat  so  as  to  have  the  light 
from  two  long,  curtained  windows  behind  him  and 
full  on  the  face  of  his  patients. 

He  rose  from  his  place  at  the  desk  as  Charlie 
Grace  entered.  He  had  grown  stouter  and  stockier 
with  the  years.  His  full  round  face,  lighted  by  his 
large  round  glasses  rather  than  by  his  small  round 
eyes,  and  adorned  with  a  stubby,  closely  clipped 
brown  mustache,  had  a  rubicund  look  of  youth. 
It  was,  nevertheless,  a  learned  face,  like  that  of 
some  wise  young  Swiss  professor.  His  greeting  was 
cordial,  while  it  preserved  the  professional  decorum 
the  moment  called  for. 

"Hello,  Charlie.     Glad  to  see  you.     Sit  down." 

Furny's  voice  was  against  him.  It  was  thin  and 
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high,  with  a  tendency  to  squeak  in  moments  of 
exasperation  or  emphasis. 

On  taking  his  seat  Charlie  Grace  plunged  at  once 
into  the  subject  that  had  brought  him,  describing  his 
symptoms  and  the  worry  they  had  caused  him  with 
a  certain  luxury  of  relief  in  speaking  out.  He  told 
of  dizziness,  of  thirst,  of  headache,  of  restless  nights, 
of  days  of  lassitude,  and  of  the  two  occasions  when 
he  had  fallen  down.  These  details  being  so  im 
portant,  it  disturbed  him  to  find  Freddy  give  them 
what  looked  like  an  indifferent  attention.  He  was, 
in  fact,  chiefly  occupied  in  finding  his  place  in  a 
ledgerlike  volume,  in  which  he  wrote. 

"Let  me  see,"  he  broke  in;  "there's  a  G.  in  your 
name,  isn't  there?" 

Charlie  Grace  admitted  that  his  middle  name  was 
Gunnison. 

"And  you  were  born  in — ?" 

"1869." 

"Yes,  of  course.  So  was  I.  You're  a  little  the 
older,  aren't  you?" 

"I  was  born  in  January." 

"And  I  in  May.  So  that  you're  in  your  thirty- 
ninth  year,  like  me."  He  continued  to  write.  "Your 
father's  name  was  William  Grace,  and  he  died  of — " 

"Bright's  disease." 

"At  the  age  of—?" 

"  Seventy-three." 

"And  your  mother?" 

"Her  name  was  Millicent  Grace.  She  was  thirty- 
six.  I've  been  told  she  died  of  what  they  call 
pernicious  anemia." 

There  followed  a  series  of  minute  questions,  the 
replies  to  which  were  carefully  noted.  After  this 

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the  doctor  felt  the  patient's  pulse,  looked  at  his 
tongue,  and  listened  to  his  heart — again  making 
notes  in  the  ledgerlike  volume.  When  they  had 
taken  their  seats  once  more  Furny  assumed  the 
purely  non-committal  air  that  comes  to  members 
of  his  profession,  especially  in  difficult  moments, 
like  the  protective  coloring  developed  by  animals 
living  in  dangerous  habitats.  It  was  this,  perhaps, 
that  gave  Charlie  Grace  his  first  inkling  of  alarm. 
If  the  case  were  not  grave,  he  argued,  Furny  wouldn't 
be  so  careful  to  seem  expressionless.  He  was  think 
ing  primarily  of  this  while  the  physician  prescribed, 
at  great  length  and  with  much  minutiae  of  detail, 
the  course  to  be  followed — a  diet  in  which  it  seemed 
to  the  patient  there  was  nothing  left  to  eat  at  all, 
the  free  use  of  alkaline  waters,  rest  from  work,  free 
dom  from  worry,  and  the  spending  of  the  next  winter, 
at  least,  in  an  equable  climate — Florida,  California, 
or  the  south  of  France. 

Charlie  Grace  was  indignant.  "But  I  simply 
can't  do  it.  I  can't  get  away." 

The  doctor  smiled  indulgently,  as  one  who  was 
familiar  with  the  protest.  "My  dear  boy,  you 
must  do  it — you  must  get  away." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  it's  as  bad  as  all  that?" 

The   doctor  continued   to  smile.     "It's   quite   as 
bad  as  all  that — if  you  call  that  bad.     Lots  of  fel 
lows  would  be  glad  of  the  excuse  to  get  off." 
./"And  how  long  should  I  have  to  keep  it  up?" 

Freddy  was  prepared  with  his  answer,  delivering 
it  with  the  ease  of  one  who  has  often  said  the  same 
thing  before.  "We  can  tell  that  better  when  we 
see  the  effect.  I  shall  want  you  to  come  again  in 
three  or  four  days'  time,  after  I've  made — " 

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"Then  you  think  it  looks — serious?" 

"Oh,  everything's  serious.  If  it  wasn't,  we  doc 
tors  would  be  out  of  business." 

"But  this  is  more  so  than — than  usual." 

"Not  a  bit,  my  dear  fellow.  I  get  lots  of  cases 
as  bad  as  yours — and  some  worse." 

"And  some  worse.  That  means  that  you  don't 
get- 

But  Furny  was  prepared  for  him  here,  too.  "It 
means  that  every  man's  case  is  as  serious  as  it  can 
possibly  be — to  him  and  me.  That's  all  we've  got 
to  consider.  If  I  were  to  deal  with  your  condition 
lightly,  I  shouldn't  earn  my  fee.  And  if  you  were 
to  take  it  lightly,  it  wouldn't  be  worth  my  while  to 
treat  you.  There  it  is  in  a  nutshell.  I'm  going  at 
the  matter  very  gravely  indeed,  and  I  hope  you'll 
do  the  same."  Smiling  again,  he  rose.  "Let  me 
see — this  is  Wednesday — Saturday  you'll  want  to  be 
out  of  town.  Suppose  you  come  again  on  Monday. 
That  will  give  me  time  to  make — " 

Charlie  Grace,  too,  rose.  "Just  tell  me  this. 
Is  it  anything — anything  that  people  get  over?" 

Furny  smiled  on,  holding  out  his  hand.  "My 
dear  fellow,  that's  not  a  scientific  question.  It 
isn't  the  way  we  classify  conditions.  Everything 
depends.  Everything  always  depends.  You  do 
as  I  tell  you,  and  come  again  on  Monday.  See 
you  then.  Good-by.  Glad  you  looked  in." 

There  were  many  questions  still  to  ask,  but  the 
consultation  having  already  lasted  an  hour,  Charlie 
Grace  felt  himself  obliged  to  go,  especially  as  Furny 
conducted  him  to  the  door  of  the  waiting-room  and 
signaled  to  the  next  patient  to  come  in. 

He  was  out  in  the  street  before  he  reacted  from 
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his  anxieties — anxieties  inspired  by  Furny's  manner. 
Furny  had  taken  the  whole  thing  too  solemnly.  It 
was  like  him  to  do  it.  It  was  like  any  doctor. 
Doctors  and  lawyers  had  that  in  common,  that  when 
they  got  hold  of  a  good  thing  they  hung  on  to  it — 
for  their  own  purposes.  No  doubt  Furny  thought 
he  had  a  gold-mine.  It  was  extraordinary,  too,  the 
ease  with  which  doctors  would  order  a  man  to  for 
sake  all  at  a  moment's  notice  and  go  to  California 
or  the  south  of  France,  as  if  he  had  no  more  to  con 
sider  than  a  migrating  bird.  What  he  had  expected 
of  Furny  was  a  pill,  or  a  dose  of  something,  that 
would  steady  his  nerves  and  stop  these  attacks  of 
vertigo.  It  was  all  he  needed,  too.  He  was  con 
vinced  of  that.  There  was  nothing  really  wrong  with 
him.  He  was  as  strong  in  wind  and  limb,  and  all 
the  essentials  of  a  good  constitution,  as  he  had  ever 
been.  As  for  this  matter  of  diet,  it  was  a  wonder 
Furny  didn't  put  him  on  a  preparation  of  infant's 
food.  It  was  all  rot.  Of  course  he  would  try  the 
diet,  for  a  week  or  so,  at  any  rate,  since  it  was  only 
reasonable  to  attempt  something — but  he  couldn't 
give  up  work  and  worry  till  the  time  came.  He  had 
always  been  accustomed  to  work  and  worry,  and 
neither  had  ever  done  him  any  harm. 

During  a  sleepless  night,  however,  as  well  as  the 
next  day,  he  was  not  free  from  some  of  the  mis 
givings  that  had  beset  him  in  Furny's  office.  Was 
it  possible  that  he  might  be  ill?  Was  it  possible 
that  he  might  become  an  invalid.  Was  it  possible 
that  he  might  be  going — to  die?  He  put  the  last 
suggestion  from  him  as  ridiculous.  He  was  only 
thirty-eight.  He  was  hale,  hearty,  and  full  of 
energy.  He  was  eager  with  the  zest  of  life.  He  had 


THE     WAY     HOME 


fifty  irons  in  the  fire.  He  had  his  troubles,  it  was 
true — troubles  in  which  it  had  seemed  at  times  that 
it  would  be  a  luxury  to  put  a  bullet  through  his 
temple,  and  get  out  of  them  all.  He  remembered 
saying  so  to  Emma — but  it  hadn't  been  serious. 
She  herself  had  said  that  he  would  feel  differently 
if  he  were  going  to  die — and,  though  he  wasn't  going 
to  die,  he  felt  differently  already.  He  was  seedy  and 
depressed,  but  it  was  a  far  cry  from  that  to — death. 
Death!  He  couldn't  think  of  such  a  thing.  It  was 
absurd.  At  thirty-eight  he  still  had  forty  good 
years  before  him.  How  could  he  die,  and  leave  the 
interests  to  which  he  was  so  vital?  How  could  he 
die,  when  Hilda  and  the  kids  had  need  of  him? 
How  could  he  die,  while  Esther  Legrand — ?  But, 
curiously  enough,  in  the  light  of  this  new  possibility, 
Esther  Legrand  became  less  obtrusive.  Not  that 
it  was  a  possibility!  He  was  careful  to  emphasize 
that  fact.  It  was  the  sort  of  thing  a  man's  imagi 
nation  liked  to  play  with,  frightening  himself  in  a 
childish  way  for  the  relief  he  got  in  finding  it  wasn't 
true. 

On  the  Friday  morning  of  that  week  a  note  arrived 
from  Hilda. 

DEAR  CHARLIE, — I  am  going  away  for  a  few  days,  but 
you  must  not  be  worried  about  me,  as  I  shall  be  with 
friends  and  quite  safe.  I  may  be  gone  ten  days  or  a 
fortnight  at  most.  Will  you  try  to  be  as  much  as  possible 
at  the  bungalow  for  the  children's  sake?  They  are  quite 
well;  but  I  shall  be  more  at  ease  in  my  mind  if  I  can  think 
you  are  with  them.  Again  I  must  ask  you  not  to  have  a 
minute's  anxiety  on  my  account,  and  to  believe  me, 

Your  devoted 

HILDA. 
472 


THE     WAY     HOME 


He  would  have  dwelt  more  on  this  odd  departure 
had  his  thoughts  been  less  centered  on  himself.  As 
it  was,  he  went  down  that  afternoon  to  Rosyth  and 
remained  till  Monday.  He  was  glad  when  Monday 
came,  since  he  would  go  again  to  Furny's  office 
and  have  these  preposterous  fears  of  his  dispelled. 
It  was  curious  how  they  dogged  him,  though  he  knew 
how  unreasonable  they  were.  They  were  with  him 
as  he  tramped  about  the  tiny  estate,  as  he  rowed  the 
children  on  the  Sound,  as  he  directed  Antonio  in 
digging  his  first  potatoes,  and  as  he  sat  and  smoked 
on  the  veranda,  watching  the  passing  ships.  He 
said  to  himself  that  he  knew  now  how  the  defendant 
in  the  dock  must  feel  while  waiting  for  the  verdict 
of  the  jury. 

And  yet  when  the  verdict  was  delivered  he  rallied 
all  his  forces  to  take  it  bravely.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
he  called  the  spoken  sentence  upon  himself,  for 
Furny  did  his  best  to  spare  him. 

"It's  just  as  I  thought,"  he  said,  when  giving  on 
Monday  the  results  of  his  tests  and  cogitations. 
"You've  got  to  be  very  careful." 

It  was  as  much  in  bravado  as  in  protest  that  Charlie 
Grace  said,  with  a  little  air  of  bluster:  "If  being 
careful  means  shutting  up  shop  and  running  away, 
it's  out  of  the  question.  I  shall  not  do  anything  of 
the  kind." 

r  Perhaps  because  he  wasn't  accustomed  to  have  his 
patients  speak  to  him  in  this  way  Furny  reddened. 
Because  he  was  slightly  annoyed  his  voice  grew 
high  and  thin.  "Then  it  won't  take  six  months  to 
kill  you.  It's  my  duty  to  tell  you  that." 

Charlie  Grace   sobered,   nerving  himself  for   the 
question  to  which  he  felt  it  imperative  to  have  an 
31  473 


THE     WAY     HOME 


answer.     "And  how  long  will  it  take  to  kill  me  if 
I  do  as  you  say?" 

But  Furny  was  not  wholly  mollified.  "I've  got 
nothing  to  do  with  that.  All  I  can  tell  you  is  the 
best  possible  thing  to  do  in  your  present  condition. 
If  you  won't  do  that — " 

"Well,  if  I  do?" 

"Then  it  will  be — the  best  possible  thing." 

"Shall  I  get  better?" 

Furny  took  a  reasonable  tone.  "My  dear  boy, 
how  can  I  tell  that?  A  doctor  can't  predict  the 
future  any  more  than  any  other  man.  Everything 
depends.  You  might  as  well  ask  me  if  you  take  the 
best  steamer  for  Europe  whether  or  not  you'll  arrive. 
How  do  I  know?  You'll  arrive — if  nothing  happens 
to  prevent  it." 

"Then  I'll  put  it  this  way.  If  I  do  as  you  say, 
do  you  see  any  reason  why  I  shouldn't  get  better?" 

Furny  screwed  up  his  mouth  and  considered  what 
to  answer.  "N-no,"  he  ventured,  at  last,  with  a 
decided  nod  of  the  head. 

"And  be  as  well  as  I  was  before?" 

"I  don't  know  how  well  you  were  before." 

"Be  perfectly  well,  then." 

"My  dear  boy,  don't  talk  nonsense.  No  one  is 
perfectly  well.  You  haven't  been  perfectly  well  for 
years,  I  should  say — if  you  ever  were.  You've 
worked  hard — and  you've  probably  in  some  ways 
lived  hard—" 

"Oh,  I've  done  both  of  those,  all  right." 

"Well,  then,  what  can  you  expect?  You've  come 
now  to  the  verge  of  middle  age,  and  you  find  you've 
— you've  got  to  be  careful.  There's  nothing  extraor 
dinary  in  that." 

474 


THE     WAV     HOME 


"  I  call  it  more  than  being  careful,  to  chuck  every 
thing  that's  worth  while  in  life — and  shut  oneself 
up  in  a  glass  case." 

Furny  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "A  glass  case  is 
better  than  a  wooden  one,  isn't  it?" 

"So  you  do  put  it  in  that  way?" 

"Of  course  I  put  it  in  that  way?  What  am  I  here 
for  but  to  put  it  in  that  way — to  every  one  who 
comes  to  me.  It's  the  choice  which  it's  my  business 
to  offer." 

"But  with  me  it's  Hobson's  choice, isn't  it? — the 
choice  of  the  wooden  one." 

"Why  should  you  want  to  make  me  say  that?" 

"Because  I'm  one  of  those  chaps  who  can  stand  a 
certainty  but  who  are  always  tortured  by  suspense." 

"But  when  I've  no  certainty  to  give  you!" 

Charlie  Grace  abandoned  the  formality  of  the 
patient  for  the  privilege  of  the  friend  by  getting  up 
and  moving  about  the  room. 

"You  have  a  certainty  to  give  me,  old  chap;  only 
you  don't  feel  it  right  to  take  away  my  last  shred 
of  hope.  Come  now!  Isn't  that  it?" 

Furny,  too,  relaxed  from  his  more  professional 
manner  by  swinging  round  in  his  revolving  chair 
and  crossing  his  stout  legs.  "Charlie,  don't  be  a 
damn  fool."  His  voice  cracked  on  the  words. 
"What  you  want  me  to  tell  you  is  that  you're  all 
right  and  that  you've  a  long  lease  of  life  before  you. 
I  can't  say  the  one  any  more  than  I  can  say  the 
other.  I  can't  say  anything  at  all.  I  can  only  tell 
you  what  to  do.  When  you've  done  it  you  must 
wait  and  see  the  results.  That's  all." 

Charlie  Grace  strolled  to  one  of  the  curtained 
windows,  where  he  stood  looking  out  at  a  stretch  of 

475 


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blank  wall.  Everything  within  him  that  made  for 
wisdom  urged  him  to  take  Furny's  last  words  as 
conclusive,  and  let  well  enough  alone.  If  he  did  so 
he  would  be  no  worse  off  than  any  other  man  for 
whom  death  may  lurk  in  the  next  footfall — or  may  be 
postponed  for  fifty  years.  He  couldn't  have  told 
what  it  was — whether  curiosity  or  perversity  or 
cowardice  or  pluck — that  made  this  prudent  reserve 
impossible.  He  felt  that  he  must  know.  He  was 
sure  that  if  he  knew  he  could  orientate  himself — in 
either  direction.  If  he  was  to  live,  he  might  get  life 
on  some  worthier  basis  because  of  this  experience; 
if  he  had  to  die — well,  other  men  had  died  before  him, 
and  he  could  screw  his  courage  up  to  it  as  effectively 
as  they.  Besides,  if  he  was  going,  he  had  all  sorts 
of  things  to  attend  to,  and  attend  to  at  once.  With 
so  many  irons  in  the  fire,  as  he  put  it,  it  would  take 
two  years  at  least  for  him  to  "pull  out"  and  leave 
everything  straight  for  Hilda  and  the  kids.  This 
thought  was  uppermost  for  the  moment  as  he  said, 
still  with  his  back  to  Furny: 

"If  I  do  everything  you  tell  me,  do  you  think  I 
can  live  two  years?" 

"Easily." 

Furny  shouted  the  words  with  a  light  laugh,  evi 
dently  glad  to  be  able  to  say  something  affirmative. 
But  to  Charlie  Grace  the  reply  contained  a  number 
of  hints  and  limitations.  It  implied  that  he  might 
easily  live  two  years,  but  that  he  might  not  easily 
live  ten,  or  even  less  than  ten.  Otherwise  Furny 
would  have  said,  "My  dear  boy,  you're  good  for 
another  twenty."  He  couldn't  help  a  certain  terror 
at  the  heart,  and  yet  he  decided  to  make  a  push  for 
further  information. 

476 


THE     WAY    HOME 


"Could  I  live  another  five?" 

He  was  still  staring  blindly  at  the  blank  wall,  but 
he  could  hear  Furny  swing  brusquely  in  his  revolving 
chair.  "My  dear  boy,  I'm  not  God.  I  can't  tell 
you  how  long  you're  going  to  live.  All  I  can  say  is 
that  if  you  follow  my  directions  and  take  this" — he 
leaned  forward  on  the  desk  and  began  to  scribble 
something — "why,  then,  you'll  live  as  long  as  you're 
likely  to." 

Charlie  Grace  turned  slowly.  "Just  answer  this, 
will  you  ?  Did  you  ever  know  any  one  in  whom  these 
particular  organs  were  as  far  gone  as  you  say  they 
are  in  my  case — who  did  live  for  five?" 

Furny  continued  to  scribble.  "It  wouldn't  be 
worth  my  while  to  answer  that  question,  because  it 
would  have  no  bearing  on  your  case  whether  I've 
known  such  an  instance  or  not.  Everything  de 
pends."  As  Charlie  Grace  came  back  toward  the 
desk  the  doctor  held  up  the  paper  he  had  folded  and 
went  on.  "Now,  Charlie,  buck  up,  and  don't  be  an 
ass.  Take  this  to  Melvin  &  Stewart,  and  follow  the 
prescription.  You'd  better  come  back  and  see  me 
by  the  end  of  next  week.  In  the  mean  while  go  down 
to  Rosyth  and  stay  there.  If  they  bother  you  from 
the  office  tell  them  to  go  to  the  devil." 

The  professional  manner  returned  as  he  rose, 
smiled,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  It's  all  very  well  for  you — "  Charlie  Grace  began, 
moodily,  ignoring  for  the  moment  the  proffered  hand. 

"And  I  hope  it  will  be  all  very  well  for  you,  too," 
Furny  broke  in,  quickly.  "If  you  don't  think  it's 
likely  to  be,  then,  if  I  were  you,  I  should  go  and  see 
old  Valenty,  in  West  Fifty-fourth  Street.  I  shouldn't 
wonder,"  he  continued,  as  if  with  a  new  thought,  "if 

477 


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it  wouldn't  be  the  best  thing  for  you  to  do,  in  any 
case.  The  fact  is  that  you  and  I  are  too  much  by 
way  of  being  old  friends  for  you  to  take  a  great  deal 
of  stock  in  what  I  tell  you.  You'll  obey  orders  from 
him  when  you  wouldn't  from  me — " 

"Oh,  stow  that,  Furny."  Charlie  Grace  said, 
curtly,  and  departed. 

And  yet  he  went  next  day  to  see  old  Valenty.  He 
did  so,  not  in  distrust  of  Furny,  but  in  corroboration. 
He  did  it  craftily,  too,  saying  nothing  to  old  Valenty 
as  to  his  consultations  with  Dr.  Furnival,  but  be 
ginning  all  over  again.  He  had  the  greater  satis 
faction  in  doing  so  in  that  the  old  man — who  was 
not  so  very  old — listened  to  Charlie  Grace's  tale  as  to 
some  absorbing  experience  he  had  never  heard  of 
before,  interjecting  a  sympathetic  "Indeed!"  or 
"That's  very  characteristic"  or  "That's  significant 
— most  significant,"  at  the  emphatic  points.  It 
gave  the  patient  a  pleasing  sense  of  aiding  in  scientific 
advance,  of  bringing  to  light  new  and  unique  phe 
nomena. 

But  the  results  were  curiously  similar  to  those 
obtained  with  Furny.  He,  Charlie  Grace,  must  be 
careful;  he  must  eat  and  drink  according  to  the 
strictest  rule;  he  must  give  up  work  and  worry;  and 
he  must  pass  the  following  winter,  at  least,  in  an 
equable  climate — Florida,  California,  or  the  south 
of  France. 

"And  if  I  did  that  should  I  get  better?" 

Old  Valenty  looked  up  at  him  from  beneath 
shaggy  gray  brows.  He  spoke  with  a  foreign  accent, 
trilling  the  letter  r.  "With  car-r-e — you  might  not 
get  any  worse." 

"Should  I  live — say,  another  two  years?" 
478 


THE     WAY     HOME 


"With  car-r-e — yes." 

"Should  I  live  another  five?" 

"There's  no  telling  what  we  may  not  accomplish — 
with  car-r-e." 

Charlie  Grace  took  this  as  enough.  He  had  got 
all  he  could  expect  from  old  Valenty.  The  superior 
court  had  confirmed  the  sentence  imposed  by  the 
lower.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  take  himself  off 
and  wait  for  execution. 

He  hurried  along  Fifty-fourth  Street  in  the  direc 
tion  of  Fifth  Avenue,  as  though  by  sheer  rapidity  of 
movement  he  could  run  away  from  his  doom.  But, 
having  reached  the  corner,  he  knew  neither  which 
way  to  turn  nor  what  to  do.  There  was  no  more 
object  in  going  to  the  right  hand  than  there  was  in 
going  to  the  left.  Action  of  any  kind  had  suddenly 
become  futile.  It  was  as  if  he  had  already  been 
detached  from  the  movement  and  existence  around 
him.  He  looked  up  and  down  the  street — the  street 
that  compressed  into  itself  most  of  the  things  he  had 
cared  and  worked  for — as  a  bird  might  glance  back 
at  the  nest  and  the  shell  out  of  which  it  has  taken 
flight.  As  far  as  he  was  concerned  it  had  served  its 
purpose;  its  work  was  done. 

It  was  the  end  of  June.  The  passers-by  were  list 
less;  the  vehicles  relatively  few.  The  neighboring 
houses,  with  blinds  drawn,  themselves  suggested 
death.  It  was  still  two  or  three  hours  to  evening, 
and  he  must  fill  in  the  time  somehow.  But  how? 
But  where?  But  why?  Desires  and  motives  had 
failed  him  alike.  Why  do  one  thing  rather  than 
another?  Why  do  anything  at  all?  The  resources 
of  the  metropolis,  great  even  in  summer,  had  all  at 
once  grown  as  meaningless  to  him  as  if  he  were  a 

479 


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departed  soul  come  back.  He  had  neither  part  nor 
lot  in  them.  It  was  as  if  he  had  already  bidden 
them  good-by. 

It  was  a  strange  sensation,  in  this  city,  in  this 
street,  where  he  had  never  before  been  at  a  loss  for 
interesting  occupation,  where  the  difficulty  had 
always  been  to  do  the  many  pleasant  things  that 
might  be  done.  They  were  still  there — the  pleasant 
things,  but  their  significance  had  departed.  They 
had  departed  and  left  him,  as  it  were,  high  and  dry. 
Words  long  forgotten  and  culled  from  he  knew  not 
where  came  back  to  him,  though  with  only  a  partial 
application  to  his  state  of  mind:  "When  I  was  a  child 
I  spake  as  a  child,  I  thought  as  a  child,  I  understood 
as  a  child:  but  when  I  became  a  man  I  put  away 
childish  things."  Dimly  he  felt  that  he  had  put 
away  childish  things,  but  that  he  had  not  yet  become 
a  man.  Illusion  had  gone  before  reality  had  come 
to  take  its  place.  Or  was  it  that  reality  had  gone, 
and  there  was  nothing  before  him  but  illusion — 
nothing  before  him  at  all? 

He  stood  so  long  on  the  street  corner  that  the  mere 
necessity  for  moving  on  became  imperative.  Across 
the  street  a  church  shot  its  sharp  white  spires  into 
the  blue  air.  He  had  entered  it  at  times — years 
ago,  when  he  was  in  the  habit  of  showing  the  sights 
of  the  city  to  country  relatives  from  Horsehair 
Hill.  He  knew  it  would  be  cool  and  dim  and  empty 
in  there,  and  that  he  could  sit  in  one  of  the  quiet 
pews  and  let  the  iron  enter  into  his  soul.  He  was 
half-way  across  the  street  when  the  thought  came 
to  him:  "Not  there!  Not  in  a  church!"  To  take 
refuge  in  a  church  at  this  minute  of  all  minutes 
would  be  like  striking  his  colors;  like  a  kind  of 

480 


THE     WAY     HOME 


capitulation;  like  accepting  a  favor  from  a  hand  he 
had  dashed  away.  If  he  must  die  he  would  die 
without  the  Church,  as  he  had  lived  without  it. 
He  owed  it  to  his  self-respect  as  a  man  to  do  that. 

He  passed  the  church,  and  went  down  the  street 
toward  his  club.  That,  too,  at  this  time  of  year, 
would  be  cool  and  dim  and  empty.  Moreover,  it 
would  be  neutral.  It  would  connect  him  with  no 
early  associations,  and  force  on  him  no  suggestions, 
and  have  no  spires  pointing  in  a  direction  in  which 
he  didn't  want  to  look.  It  proved  to  be  cool  and 
dim,  but  not  quite  empty. 

" Hello,  Grace !  What '11  you  have?  Let  me  make 
you  acquainted  with  Mr.  Saunders." 

It  was  the  voice  of  an  old  friend  named  Williams. 
Williams  and  Saunders  were  seated  in  deep,  luxurious 
chairs  in  the  smoking-room,  cooling  drinks  on  a 
small  round  table  between  them.  Charlie  Grace 
paused  a  minute  to  exchange  conventional  greetings; 
but  he  wouldn't  share  the  cooling  drinks,  or  even 
sit  down.  How  could  he?  It  was  all  very  well  for 
Williams  and  Saunders,  since  they  were  not  going 
to  die.  But  he  was;  and  the  fact  stood  between 
him  and  all  the  small  interests  of  life.  They  were 
not  interests  any  longer.  It  seemed  curious  to  him 
already  that  people  should  fritter  away  time  on 
them.  No  one  could — except  men  like  Williams 
and  Saunders,  who  weren't  going  to  die.  If  they 
ever  were  to  die,  it  would  not  be  till  long  indefinite 
periods  had  rolled  by;  whereas,  he  could  only  live 
his  two  meager  years — "with  car-r-e."  Two  years! 
It  would  pass  in  a  twinkling.  He  looked  back  to 
what  he  had  been  doing  two  years  earlier,  and  it 
was  like  the  other  day.  It  would  be  only  like  to- 

481 


THE     WAV     HOME 


morrow,  or  the  day  after  to-morrow  at  furthest, 
before  he  should  be  carried  out  from  the  house  in 
Seventy-fifth  Street,  or  from  the  bungalow  on  Long 
Island,  in  a  long  wooden  box,  and  be  hustled  into 
the  ground. 

Standing  by  the  little  round  table  with  the  drinks 
on  it,  he  listened  absently  to  Williams's  account  of 
the  trip  he  was  about  to  take  with  Saunders  into  the 
woods  of  New  Brunswick,  and  declined  an  invi 
tation  to  take  part  in  the  expedition.  He  gave  as 
his  excuse  the  fact  that  he  was  going  to  build  a  new 
house  on  his  little  Long  Island  property.  It  was 
the  excuse  he  would  have  given  in  any  case,  because 
it  was  what  he  expected  to  be  occupied  with  during 
the  greater  part  of  the  summer.  Ralph  Con- 
ingsby  had  mysteriously  disappeared,  but  when  he 
came  back,  he,  Charlie  Grace,  had  meant  to  fix 
definitely  on  the  site  and  begin  making  the  archi 
tectural  plans.  It  came  over  him  now,  however, 
that  the  new  house  would  never  be  built;  or,  if  so, 
that  he  should  never  see  it;  and  so  with  a  curt  good- 
by  he  turned  abruptly  away. 

He  saw  he  couldn't  remain  at  the  club.  Clubs 
were  not  for  him  any  more.  He  would  go  home. 

But  once  out  in  the  street  the  thought  of  the 
empty  house  appalled  him.  What  could  he  do 
there?  The  old  woman  who,  with  her  husband, 
took  care  of  it  in  summer  would  give  him  something 
to  eat;  but  how  should  he  pass  the  evening?  He 
was  not  a  reader.  He  didn't  look  into  twenty  books 
in  a  year.  He  had  something  like  a  scorn  of  books, 
considering  them  as  shadows  in  a  world  of  living 
deeds  and  men.  Ordinarily  he  had  some  power 
of  "pottering"  about  a  house  of  his  own,  with  a 

482 


THE     WAY     HOME 


practical  eye  for  windows  and  doors  and  furnaces 
and  paint  and  other  details  that  need  "seeing  to." 
But  he  couldn't  potter  now.  Pottering  implied 
continuity  —  continuity  of  purpose  —  continuity  of 
life — and  he  had  come  to  the  point  where  everything 
broke  off. 

In  the  end  he  called  a  passing  cab  and  drove  to 
the  Waldorf.  It  was  his  favorite  hotel.  New 
hotels  had  sprung  up  in  New  York,  eclipsing,  per 
haps,  a  glory  that  had  been  brightest  in  the  middle 
nineties;  but  Charlie  Grace  had  never  lost  the 
glamour  attaching  to  those  early  years  when  the 
mere  process  of  "staying  at  the  Waldorf"  was  a 
proof  of  elevation  to  the  higher  social  ranks.  It 
was  at  all  times  one  of  the  lounging-places  he  pre 
ferred.  He  liked  its  immense  spaces,  its  shadowy 
perspectives,  its  peopled  corridors,  its  color,  its 
promiscuity,  its  leisured  movement,  its  oddly  varie 
gated  life.  He  liked  the  way  in  which  the  stranger 
could  come  and  go  at  his  ease,  making  himself  at 
home  with  as  much  freedom  as  if  he  had  paid  for 
everything  beneath  the  great  hospitable  roof.  He 
liked  the  assemblage  of  unclassified  human  units, 
come  together  from  all  the  corners  of  the  country, 
from  all  the  ends  of  the  earth,  to  jostle,  and  stare, 
and  pass  mysteriously  onward.  He  was  always  at 
home  among  human  odds  and  ends — more  so  than 
in  the  elegant  spheres  to  which  he  had  at  times 
desired  admission.  In  seeking  their  contact  to-day 
he  was  moved  by  much  the  same  impulse  as  that  of 
a  wounded  beast  in  taking  refuge  amid  the  friendly 
herd. 

It  was  natural  enough  that  on  a  midsummer 
afternoon  the  current  of  life  in  the  halls  of  the 

483 


THE     WAY     HOME 


Waldorf  should  run  langourously.  And  yet  it  ran. 
Queer,  burly,  clean-shaven  men,  who  might  have 
been  detectives  or  card-sharpers,  as  it  happened, 
hung  about  the  offices  and  news-stands,  each  with  a 
cigar;  ladies  wearing  summer  toilettes  and  dia 
monds  took  tea  in  palm-rooms  or  sat  fanning  them 
selves  in  corners  cushioned  and  draped  a  la  Turque. 
Everyone  had  the  air  of  waiting  for  the  unexpected 
to  happen — of  waiting  patiently,  because  any 
minute  might  bring  some  romantic  event  to  pass. 
Charlie  Grace  knew  the  feeling  well.  But  nothing 
could  happen  to  him  now.  He  was  going  to  die. 
He  was  already  as  good  as  dead.  All  of  these  people, 
so  idly  and  yet  so  busily  occupied,  were  going  to 
live.  Not  one  of  them  knew  but  what  he  had  forty 
or  fifty  or  sixty  good  years  before  him.  It  was  easy 
for  them  to  smoke  cigars  and  sip  tea  with  such  a 
prospect  as  that.  In  moving  down  the  long  cor 
ridors  and  through  the  wide  lounging-rooms  he  felt 
like  a  specter.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  must 
startle  people  as  he  passed. 

A  stroll  through  the  halls  sufficed  to  show  him  that 
the  place  knew  him  no  more.  "What  have  I  to  do 
here?"  he  asked  himself,  and  went  out  again  into 
the  heat. 

"Oh,  Hilda!" 

It  was  the  first  expression  of  his  need,  of  his  loneli 
ness.  He  had  whispered  the  words  half  aloud  as 
he  stood  on  the  hotel  steps.  Now  that  he  came  to 
think  of  it,  he  believed  that  no  one  on  earth  had  ever 
been  more  lonely  than  he  was  at  that  moment.  One 
world  seemed  to  have  cast  him  out,  while  no  other 
world — if  there  was  any  other  world — was  willing  to 
take  him  in.  For  the  first  time  in  all  the  years  since 

484 


THE     WAY     HOME 


he  had  been  married  he  longed  for  his  wife.  He  had 
often,  in  absences  from  her,  wished  she  was  near; 
but  he  had  been  able  to  get  along  with  tolerable 
ease  without  her.  Now  he  had  need  of  her — des 
perate  need  of  her.  It  was  a  need  that,  when  he 
thought  it  over  a  few  hours  later,  surprised  him.  Had 
he  been  asked  to  name  the  presence  that  would  most 
fully  meet  his  yearnings  at  the  moment,  he  would 
have  said,  without  hesitation,  Esther  Legrand. 
But  he  had  not  been  asked.  He  had  not  even 
interrogated  himself.  The  half-smothered  cry  had 
welled  up  within  him  before  he  knew  it  was  coming — 
before  he  could  take  or  give  account  of  it.  It  came 
of  its  own  accord — probably  because  Hilda  was  his 
wife.  Whatever  differences  there  might  have  been 
between  them,  she  was  bone  of  his  bone  and  flesh  of 
his  flesh,  and  shared  his  existence.  She  was  the  one 
being  in  the  world  toward  whom  no  sentence  of  death 
could  change  his  relation.  Between  Esther  Legrand 
and  himself  there  was  a  gulf  fixed;  between  Hilda 
and  him  there  were  the  strongest  of  common  bonds. 
He  went  back  into  the  hotel  and  telegraphed  to  her. 

Am  not  very  well.  Going  to  stay  definitely  at  Rosyth 
for  a  few  weeks.  Shall  be  glad  if  you  will  come  home  as 
soon  as  you  conveniently  can. 

CHARLIE. 

He  addressed  the  telegram  to  the  care  of  Mrs. 
Douglas  Meredith,  Greenacre  Farm,  Roland,  New 
Jersey.  He  knew  that  Hilda  had  gone  into  retreat 
with  her  Meredith  friends  as  certainly  as  if  she  had 
made  no  mystery  about  it.  She  had  made  a  mystery 
because  she  knew  he  didn't  like  them. 

Leaving  the  hotel  again,  he  took  a  cab  and  drove 
485 


THE     WAY     HOME 


to  the  ferry  which  would  take  him  across  the  East 
River  to  the  little  station  where  he  should  find  a 
train  for  Rosyth.  As  he  drove  through  the  dingy 
streets,  fetid  with  summer  refuse,  amid  which  chil 
dren  of  all  nationalities  played,  he  said  to  himself, 
"This  is  my  real  funeral."  It  was  his  good-by. 
He  was  turning  his  back  on  the  old  life  for  good. 
He  was  turning  his  back  on  all  life  for  good.  During 
his  remaining  two  years  he  would  cross  the  river 
again,  of  course.  He  would  have  to  withdraw  as 
gradually  as  he  could  from  the  offices  of  the  Trans- 
Canadian,  and  he  should  be  obliged  to  wind  up  his 
personal  affairs.  There  would  probably  be  some 
months  during  which  he  should  be  able  to  move 
about  much  as  usual.  But  he  would  never  come 
back  as  the  old  Charlie  Grace.  The  old  Charlie 
Grace  was  taking  his  last  drive.  It  would  be  a  new 
man  who  would  reappear  in  Broadway. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IN  the  morning  Charlie  Grace  was  astonished  to 
find  how  soundly  he  had  slept.  He  had  not  had 
so  refreshing  a  night  for  months.  His  immediate 
thought  on  waking  was  of  his  interviews  with  Furny 
and  old  Valenty.  They  came  to  him  as  nightmares. 
For  a  few  minutes  before  actually  getting  up  he  had 
the  relief  of  taking  them  as  hideous  dreams.  Noth 
ing  so  preposterous  could  have  happened  as  a  fact. 

Realization  came  in  proportion  as  the  interests 
of  the  day  began.  It  was  astonishing  how  many 
things  brought  the  great  change  home  to  him — 
brought  home  to  him  the  fact  that  his  stay  had 
become  temporary.  The  children  played  about  him; 
Antonio  shambled  up  asking  for  orders;  a  man  ap 
peared  from  the  village  of  Rosyth  to  show  Mr. 
Grace  a  horse  the  latter  had  thought  of  buying;  a 
carpenter  brought  plans  for  building  a  new  and  larger 
garage.  Everything  suggested  permanence — and  he 
was  going  away. 

Later  in  the  day  a  telegram  arrived  from  Mrs. 
Meredith. 

Hilda  not  here.  Have  not  heard  from  her  for  some 
weeks.  Can  I  do  anything  to  help  you? 

EMILY  MEREDITH. 

He  was  disappointed,  but  not  alarmed.  Hilda 
would  not  have  bidden  him  be  without  anxiety  on 

487 


THE     WAY     HOME 


her  account  unless  she  were  going  to  some  place  of 
safety.  Moreover,  hope  developed  as  the  day  wore 
on.  He  felt  so  relatively  well  that  it  was  impossible 
to  believe  that  Furny  and  old  Valenty  hadn't  been 
mistaken.  Doctors  were  often  mistaken.  Every 
one  knew  of  instances  in  which  men  had  been  given 
by  the  doctors  only  a  few  weeks  or  a  few  months  to 
live,  and  they  had  lived  for  years.  With  thoughts 
like  these  he  got  through  the  day  easily  enough. 

Less  easily  he  got  through  the  evening.  He 
begged  Miss  Tritton  to  let  Billy  sit  up  for  dinner, 
but  by  half  past  eight  the  boy  had  to  go  to  bed. 
Charlie  Grace  read  the  New  York  afternoon  papers 
from  the  first  page  to  the  last.  He  even  turned  the 
leaves  of  a  current  novel;  but  he  had  so  long  neg 
lected  or  despised  the  imaginative  faculty  that  now 
it  wouldn't  work.  When  everything  failed  him  he 
could  only  sit  on  the  veranda,  smoking  idly,  looking 
into  the  velvety  darkness  overhanging  the  Sound, 
and  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  scattered  lights.  He 
longed  for,  and  yet  dreaded,  the  moment  for  turning 
in.  He  had  turned  in  so  many,  many  times  in  his 
life — and  now  the  times  were  numbered.  Each  night 
would  dock  one  more.  He  could  never  lie  down 
without  thinking  of  it,  without  mentally  scoring  it 
off.  Presently  he  should  get  up  less  frequently — 
there  would  be  days,  weeks,  when  he  shouldn't  get 
up  at  all.  Later  he  would  crawl  about,  only  to  take 
to  bed  again.  He  should  be  weakened,  dispirited, 
wrecked.  Of  what  had  been  Charlie  Grace  nothing 
would  remain  but  the  ruins.  Perhaps  he  should 
have  convulsions,  like  his  father.  He  recalled  how 
it  had  required  two  and  three  men  to  hold  the  poor 
old  rector  of  St.  David's — mercifully  grown  uncon- 

488 


THE     WAY     HOME 


scious — into  his  bed.  If  that  were  to  happen  to  him 
he,  too,  would  be  unconscious,  never  to  know  any 
thing  any  more. 

There  would  be  that  mitigation,  at  least.  He 
should  already,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  have 
passed  into  oblivion,  into  nothingness.  Fortunately, 
he  didn't  believe  in  a  continuance  of  life.  He  con 
gratulated  himself  on  that.  It  cut  the  thing  off 
short,  so  that  if  one  had  no  hope  one  had  no  fears. 
One  had  only  a  horror — the  horror  of  annihilation; 
but,  after  all,  there  were  worse  horrors  than  that. 
He  should  pass  into  nothing  more  awful  than  an 
endless,  dreamless  sleep,  forgetting  and  being  for 
gotten. 

Yes,  he  would  be  forgotten.  There  would  be  no 
one  deeply  concerned  to  keep  his  memory  vivid. 
Hilda  would  in  all  probability  marry  again.  The 
idea  gave  him  a  pang,  but  he  tried  to  take  it  reason 
ably.  He  had  not  made  her  so  happy  that  she 
wouldn't  be  glad  of  consolation.  He  resolved  so 
to  arrange  his  will  that  remarriage  to  some  one 
whom  she  might  love  would  be  as  easy  for  her  as 
possible.  And  then  there  were  the  children.  To 
Billy  he  would  be  a  dim,  shadowy  personage,  dimmer 
and  more  shadowy  by  far  than  his  mother  was  to 
himself,  and  she  was  dim  and  shadowy  enough.  To 
Milly  he  would  be  nothing  at  all.  By  the  time  she 
was  a  woman  she  would  find  it  difficult  to  recall 
the  fact  that  she  had  ever  climbed  on  his  knee. 
The  paternal  instinct  was  not  strong  in  him;  and  yet 
he  owned  to  another  pang.  It  required  some  effort 
to  remind  himself  that  it  could  make  no  difference 
to  him.  By  the  time  Milly  was  a  woman  he  would 
be  nothing  but  a  body  drying  and  shriveling  in  a 
32  489 


THE     WAY     HOME 


grave.  Milly  might  remember  or  forget — any  one 
might  remember  or  forget — but  it  would  be  all  one 
to  him.  He  would  have  attained  to  the  blessed 
ness,  the  real,  even  if  negative,  blessedness  of  dead 
indifference. 

But  in  the  middle  of  the  night  he  woke  in  alarm. 
He  woke  reasoning,  arguing,  with  half-formed 
speeches  on  his  lips.  It  was  as  if  he  had  been  sub 
consciously  debating  with  an  opponent  who,  while 
he,  Charlie  Grace,  returned  to  the  world,  persisted 
in  remaining  under  the  threshold  and  in  the  dark. 
What  if  there  was  a  continuance  of  life?  What  if 
the  teachings  heard  in  childhood  were  to  prove 
true?  What  if  there  was  a  world  of  consequences, 
retributions,  and  rewards?  What  if,  after  all, 
there  was  a  God  the  Father,  God  the  Son,  and  God 
the  Holy  Ghost,  to  whom  an  account  must  be  given  ? 

"You  can't  do  away  with  them,"  the  invisible 
opponent  argued,  "by  the  simple  process  of  not 
believing  in  them.  Your  disbelief  can  make  no 
difference  to  them.  It  can  only  make  a  difference 
to  you." 

He  felt  helpless,  terrified.  It  was  horror  enough 
to  be  hurried  on  to  his  doom,  as  he  was  being  hur 
ried;  but  who  could  tell  what  was  to  follow  after  it? 
It  was  all  very  well  to  say  he  should  pass  into  a 
merciful  oblivion;  but  how  did  he  know?  For 
nearly  twenty  years  he  had  allowed  himself  to  do 
more  or  less  as  he  pleased,  on  the  ground  that  for 
sane  men  and  women  of  the  world  there  was  no  such 
bugbear  as  Sin;  but  how  did  he  know?  "Yes;  how 
do  you  know?  How  do  you  know?"  taunted  the 
opponent  who  lurked  sub  limina.  "You've  found 
it  convenient  to  blast  all  the  theories  of  a  future 

490 


THE     WAY     HOME 


life  with  the  dynamite  of  your  own:  'I  don't  be 
lieve  it';  but  how  do  you  know  there  won't  be  a 
world  in  which  that  explosive  will  have  no  effect?" 

"How  do  I  know  there  will  be?"  was  the  obvious 
retort. 

"That's  not  to  the  point.  If  there  isn't,  so  much 
the  better  for  you.  But  if  there  is — where  shall 
you  be  then?" 

He  got  up  and  turned  on  the  lights.  The  sight 
of  the  comfortable  room  reassured  him.  It  was 
incredible  that  he  should  be  called  away  against 
his  will  from  a  spot  in  which  he  was  so  much  at 
home.  It  was  incredible  that  he,  whose  natural 
habitat  was  in  offices  and  clubs  and  restaurants, 
should  be  summoned  to  vague,  mysterious  regions 
of  spiritual  light  or  darkness.  It  couldn't  be.  An 
evening  paper,  at  which  he  had  been  looking  after 
he  had  got  into  bed,  lay  on  the  floor.  He  picked 
it  up  and  studied  its  commonplace  columns  eagerly. 
He  studied  them  because  they  were  commonplace — 
because  they  kept  him  close  to  the  possible,  to  the 
real.  On  his  dressing-table  were  the  circulars  of 
the  various  manufacturers  of  automobiles  with 
whom  he  had  had  to  do  in  his  selection  of  a  new 
touring-car.  He  studied  this  literature,  too — not 
because  he  wasn't  already  familiar  with  its  con 
tents,  but  to  steady  his  nerves  by  taking  his  mind 
from  subjects  to  which  it  was  hostile.  At  the  end 
of  an  hour  he  was  able  to  creep  into  bed  again,  put 
out  the  light,  and  fall  into  a  restless  sleep. 

Two  days  later  he  went  up  to  town  and  spent 
the  morning  at  the  office.  Here  his  chief  occupa 
tion  was  in  writing  to  Sir  William  Short,  asking  to 
be  relieved  of  his  duties  as  soon  as  possible,  since  he 

491 


THE     WAY     HOME 


should  be  obliged  to  treat  himself  as  an  invalid  for 
the  next  two  years.  When  the  lunch-hour  came  he 
avoided  the  society  of  his  cronies,  going  off  alone 
to  an  obscure  eating-house  that  he  had  never  en 
tered  before.  In  the  afternoon  he  went  to  Vandiver 
Place  to  keep  an  appointment  with  Rufus  Legrand, 
for  which  he  had  arranged  by  telephone. 

The  main  object  of  his  errand  was  soon  stated. 
He  was  eager  to  carry  out  his  projects  for  a  William 
Grace  Memorial  without  any  reserves  and  with  no 
delay. 

"I've  got  over  the  silly  feelings  I  had  when  we 
talked  about  it  last,"  he  said. 

"That's  good,"  Legrand  commended,  fitting  the 
tips  of  his  fingers  together,  as  he  sat  in  his  high- 
backed  arm-chair  in  the  study  corner. 

"I  want  to  do  it,  and  I  want  to  do  it  at  once.  I 
shall  probably  have  to  go  away  for  next  winter — 
and  I  should  like  to  know  that  the  whole  thing  was 
in  hand  before  then." 

When  they  had  discussed  exhaustively  the  prac 
tical  points  connected  with  the  memorial,  Charlie 
Grace  said,  abruptly: 

"Where  do  you  suppose  father  is  now?" 

It  was  probably  because  there  was  some  aggres 
siveness,  and  perhaps  some  scorn,  in  the  question 
that  Legrand  contented  himself  with  a  half-smiling 
shake  of  the  head  as  he  said,  "I've  no  idea." 

Charlie  Grace  looked  astonished.  "Oh,  but  I 
thought  that's  just  what  you  had." 

The  shake  of  the  head  was  repeated.  The  smile 
was  repeated,  too.  "Not  at  all." 

"But  I  thought  you  had  the  whole  thing  mapped 
out — heaven  and  hell,  and  all  the  rest  of  it." 

492 


THE     WAV     HOME 


"Not  to  my  knowledge." 

Charlie  Grace's  face  was  blank.  He  was  so  sur 
prised  that  he  broke  into  his  next  question  without 
thinking  of  its  form.  "Well,  what  do  you  know?" 

"On  the  point  you  raise  I  don't  know  anything  at 
all." 

"But  I've  always  understood  that  it  was  the 
subject  on  which  clergymen  were  most  eloquent — 
and  most  sure." 

"Is  it?  You  may  be  right.  Your  experience  is 
probably  greater  than  mine." 

"Well,  isn't  it?" 

"I  can  only  say  that  I've  never  heard  any  clergy 
man  eloquent  on  the  subject — or  sure,  either.  But, 
then,  I  don't  hear  many  clergymen — except  myself." 

Charlie  Grace  drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the  top 
of  the  desk  beside  which  he  sat.  "But  you — you 
clergymen — think  that  when  people  die  they  may 
pass  into  a  state  of  happiness — " 

"Quite  true." 

"But  how  do  you  know?" 

"We  don't  know.  We  only  infer  it — as  you  infer 
something  as  to  the  interior  of  a  house  when  you  see 
the  door.  If  the  door  is  mean  and  squalid  you  look 
for  squalor  and  meanness  within.  If  the  door  is 
noble  and  beautiful,  why,  then,  you  take  for  granted 
that  it  will  lead  to  something  worthy  of  itself.  You 
can't  say  exactly  what  it  will  be  till  you  go  in;  but 
even  while  you  stand  without  you  can  be  justified 
in  having — expectations.  I  don't  think  that  you'll 
find  that  the  Church — or  the  clergymen  who've 
apparently  struck  you  as  too  cock-sure — will  often 
go  beyond  that  point — the  point  of — expectations." 

Charlie  Grace  pondered  this,  trying  to  fathom  its 
493 


THE     WAY     HOME 


meaning.  "I  don't  see  what  you  mean  by  the  door," 
he  said,  at  last. 

Legrand's  eyes  rested  on  him  a  moment,  mildly 
yet  searchingly.  "And  do  you  want  me  to  tell 
you?" 

"If  you  don't  mind." 

"I  don't  mind,  if  you  would  really  like  to  know. 
I  shouldn't  care  to  go  into  the  subject  at  all  if  you're 
asking  out  of  mere  intellectual  curiosity  or  for  the 
sake  of  argument.  I  never  argue  about  these  things. 
Spiritual  things  are  spiritually  discerned,  or  they're 
not  discerned  at  all." 

The  younger  man  didn't  greatly  relish  this  speech. 
While  he  had  reasons  of  his  own  for  desiring  any 
hints  Legrand  could  give  him,  he  objected  to  taking 
the  position  which  the  clergyman  might  define  as 
that  of  "a  seeker  after  truth."  He  preferred  the 
excuse  of  intellectual  curiosity,  or  even  the  imputa 
tion  of  polemics.  Nevertheless,  his  interest  in  the 
subject  was  so  keen  that  he  felt  himself  obliged  to 
say,  "I  should  really  like  to  know — for  personal 
reasons." 

"Very  well,  Charlie;  I'll  tell  you."  He  paused 
for  a  minute,  while  a  kind  of  illumination  came  into 
his  long,  ascetic  face.  "It  '11  sound  strange  to  you, 
I  dare  say,  because  you're  not  used  now  to  this  sort 
of  phraseology.  Jesus  Christ  said,  I  am  the  Door." 

Charlie  Grace  moved  abruptly.  "Oh!"  The 
smothered  exclamation  indicated  discomfort  rather 
than  surprise,  though  there  was  an  infusion  of  sur 
prise  in  the  tone.  If  he  could  have  described  his 
sensation  he  would  have  said  it  was  like  that  which 
runs  through  some  family  circle  where  a  name  which 
all  have  agreed  never  to  mention  is  suddenly  pro- 

494 


THE     WAY     HOME 


nounced  by  some  blundering  stranger.  It  was  a 
name  that  brought  back  recollections  of  his  early 
years  that  were  not  the  less  disagreeable  for  having 
grown  by  this  time  somewhat  confused.  He  said 
"Oh!"  again,  because  of  being  at  a  loss. 

Legrand  went  on.  "You  can  understand,  then, 
that  with  this  radiant  Being  as  the  Door  we  don't 
think  we  can  pitch  our  hopes  too  high  as  to  what 
we  shall  see  when  we  enter." 

Charlie  Grace  reflected.  "So  that  you  don't  pre 
tend  to  see  farther  than — the  Door?" 

"Not  yet.  But  for  the  moment  we  consider  that 
far  enough.  I  can't  tell  you  where  your  father  is — • 
which  is  what  you  asked  me.  But  I  know  that, 
having  passed  through  that  portal,  he  must  be  in 
some  state  of  blessedness.  Does  that  answer  your 
question?" 

Charlie  Grace  nodded  silently  with  a  ruminating 
air,  and  presently  took  his  leave. 

For  the  next  few  days  he  was  mentally  calmer,  but 
physically  more  depressed.  He  was  so  much  alone 
that  his  thoughts  were  thrown  in  on  himself.  Thrown 
in  on  himself,  they  worked  back  to  Esther  Legrand. 
During  the  first  hours  of  shock  her  image  had  receded. 
Now  that  he  was  growing  accustomed  to  the  new 
conditions,  she  seemed  to  emerge  again  out  of  the 
mist  that  had  suddenly  settled  down  over  his  imme 
diate  past.  It  was  an  indication  that  past  and  pres 
ent  were  once  more  falling  into  perspective,  that  life 
as  a  whole  was  beginning  to  assert  itself  as  against  a 
single  stupendous  fact.  In  his  life  as  a  whole  Esther 
Legrand  had  so  long  been  the  beautifying,  glorifying 
factor  that  in  his  hours  of  solitude  she  resumed  that 
function.  It  was  Hilda  now  who  began  to  recede. 

495 


THE     WAY     HOME 


She  receded  as  the  earthly  recedes  before  the  heav 
enly,  as  the  human  before  the  angelic.  His  experi 
ences  with  the  two  women  justified  him,  to  some 
extent,  in  feeling  this.  With  Hilda  life  was  nervous, 
tense,  dramatic  with  the  unexpected.  He  had 
formed  the  habit,  when  she  asked  to  talk  with  him 
privately  or  began  to  speak  in  a  certain  tone,  of 
saying  to  himself,  "What's  coming  now?"  With 
Esther,  on  the  other  hand,  intercourse  was  always 
refreshing,  consoling.  There  was  nothing  strained 
about  her;  she  demanded  nothing  strained  from 
him.  She  was  so  spontaneous  that  he  became 
spontaneous  himself.  She  was  so  good  that  when 
with  her  even  he  felt  the  impulse  to  amend.  In  this 
respect  she  inspired  him  from  within,  while  Hilda 
dragged  him  from  without.  It  made  the  difference. 

It  made  such  a  difference  that  he  had  the  convic 
tion  once  more  that  if  he  could  only  see  this  girl  he 
would  get  better.  He  would  get  better  even  if  he 
didn't  get  well.  And  who  could  tell?  Perhaps  he 
might  get  well.  He  was  not  yet  so  convinced  of  his 
malady  as  to  be  wholly  without  the  hope  of  shaking 
it  off.  If  he  were  ever  to  shake  it  off  it  would  surely 
be  in  the  strength  of  this  lovely  presence,  breathing 
new  life  into  him,  like  the  cheering  spirit  of  health. 

He  was  thinking  so  on  the  following  Sunday  morn 
ing  as  he  sat  on  the  veranda,  trying  to  take  an 
interest  in  the  Sunday  papers  just  come  down  from 
New  York.  On  seeing  Miss  Tritton  and  the  children 
start  for  church  he  had  to  restrain  himself  from 
offering  to  go  with  them.  He  would  have  liked 
going.  He  would  have  liked  it  as  a  matter  of  curios 
ity.  It  might  have  given  him  an  opportunity  to 
put  Rufus  Legrand's  assertions  to  the  test.  While 

496 


THE     WAY     HOME 


he  hesitated  to  contradict  a  man  so  experienced  and 
so  sincere,  he  could  have  sworn  to  hearing  sermons 
in  which  the  joys  of  heaven  were  described  with  as 
much  detail  as  if  the  preacher  had  been  in  paradise 
and  come  back.  To  have  found  a  specific  instance 
to  support  this  contention  would  have  been  a  satis 
faction;  but  not  even  for  that  would  he  enter  a 
church.  To  do  so  would  seem  like  a  sign  of  weak 
ness — to  himself.  Were  he  in  any  other  physical 
condition,  he  might  have  hesitated  less.  As  it  was, 
his  very  sense  of  need  rendered  him  the  more  de 
termined  to  do  nothing  that  would  look  like  giving  in. 
So  he  stayed  at  home  and  read  the  papers.  He  read 
listlessly,  often  letting  the  sheet  he  held  fall  to  the 
floor,  while  his  eyes  followed  vaguely  the  course  of 
some  passing  ship  or  the  movements  of  a  group  of 
young  men  bathing  beneath  a  neighboring  headland. 
It  was  a  still  morning  of  intense  sunshine.  Except 
for  an  occasional  distant  shout  from  one  of  the 
young  men  below,  no  sound  broke  in  on  the  shrilling 
of  insect  life  that  intensified  the  silence. 

The  bray  of  a  motor-horn  was,  therefore,  the  more 
strident.  Charlie  Grace  earnestly  hoped  that  no 
unwelcome  guest  from  New  York  was  going  to 
intrude  on  his  solitude.  The  solitude  was  bad 
enough;  but  to  have  to  play  the  host  to  people  whom 
he  didn't  want  would  be  worse.  He  sat  still  while 
the  motor  drove  up  to  the  door,  and  a  murmur  of 
voices  made  itself  heard.  It  was  possible  that 
whoever  it  was  would  go  away  again.  So  as  to 
seem  the  less  aware  that  any  one  had  come  he  didn't 
so  much  as  look  round  toward  the  living-room. 

"Charlie!" 

It  was  Hilda's  voice.  He  turned  to  see  her  stand- 
497 


THE     WAV     HOME 


ing  in  the  open  French  window.  She  wore  a  long 
fawn-colored  dust-cloak  and  a  cloud  of  floating 
veils.  He  rose  and  kissed  her. 

"I'm  glad  you've  come  back.  It  was  dull  without 
you,"  was  all  that  for  the  moment  he  could  find  to  say. 

Perhaps  because  he  had  been  thinking  so  much 
during  the  morning  of  Esther  Legrand,  Hilda's 
appearance  moved  him  less  than  he  had  expected. 
She  seemed  to  feel  this,  and,  moving  out  to  the 
veranda,  sat  down  at  some  little  distance  from  the 
chair  he  had  retaken.  She  looked  at  him  anxiously. 

"Charlie,  how  are  you?" 

"I'm— I'm— pretty  well." 

"Are  you  any  better?" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  can  say  that;  but  I  don't 
feel  any  worse.  Where  have  you  been?  Or  would 
you  rather  not  tell  me?" 

"Yes;  I'll  tell  you — in  a  minute.  I'll  tell  you 
because — because  I've  brought  some  one  back  with 
me." 

"Indeed?     Who?" 

She  leaned  forward,  her  gloved  hands  clasped  in 
her  lap.  "Oh,  Charlie,  you  mustn't  think  me  in 
terfering — but  I  want  you  to  be  happy — I  want  you 
to  get  well.  I  know  you  can't  do  it  with  me;  and 
so—' 

"For  God's  sake,  Hilda,  what  have  you  done?" 

"I  haven't  done  anything  much  yet,  Charlie; 
but  I'm  going  to  do  whatever  you  would  like.  Noth 
ing  matters  to  me,  so  long  as  you  get  well — and  are 
happy.  Since  I  can't  help  you  in  that — and  there's 
some  one  who  can — I've  been  to  see  Fanny — and — " 
She  sprang  to  the  door  of  the  living-room  and 
called:  "Esther!  Come  here!" 

498 


THE     WAY     HOME 


He,  too,  was  on  his  feet,  whispering  hoarsely. 
"Wait,  Hilda,  wait.  For  God's  sake,  wait." 

But  he  could  already  see  Esther  Legrand  advanc 
ing  through  the  shadows  of  the  living-room  in 
response  to  Hilda's  call.  She  also  wore  a  fawn- 
colored  dust-cloak.  A  long  jade-green  veil  floated 
back  over  her  shoulders  with  the  rapidity  of  her 
motion.  She  passed  through  the  French  window 
and  out  to  the  veranda  with  the  swift,  unhesitating 
grace  that  had  always  been  to  him  one  of  the  charms 
of  her  personality.  Both  her  hands  were  extended 
toward  him,  palms  downward,  in  a  gesture  of  sur 
render.  Hilda  stood  aside,  as  a  spectator,  leaning 
lightly  on  the  back  of  a  wicker  chair. 

"It's  so  good  of  you  to  want  me  to  come.  Fanny 
tried  to  keep  me,  but  when  Mrs.  Grace  told  me  how 
ill  you  were,  of  course  I  couldn't  stay  there." 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  recovered  from  a  few 
seconds  of  being  stunned  to  find  her  sitting  beside 
him,  while  Hilda  had  disappeared.  He  hardly 
knew  what  he  was  saying;  he  could  hardly  follow 
her  words.  He  could  neither  estimate  the  present 
nor  forecast  the  future.  Through  the  whirling  and 
surging  of  his  brain  one  wild  thought,  both  mar 
velous  and  grotesque,  seemed  clear;  that  Hilda 
had  given  him  up  and  Esther  Legrand  had  come  to 
claim  him.  What  did  it  mean  but  that  she  had 
come  to  claim  him,  when  she  sat  there,  simple, 
radiant,  calm,  as  in  the  place  that  belonged  to  her 
and  to  no  other? 

"It  was  such  a  surprise  when  Mrs.  Grace  appeared! 
We  didn't  know  anything  about  it  till  she  telephoned 
from  Charlottetown.  That's  the  capital  of  the 
island — where  you  land.  Fanny's  place  is  not  far 

499 


THE     WAY    HOME 


away — at  Keppoch — on  a  beautiful  bay,  with  the 
greenest,  greenest  fields  running  down  to  a  line  of 
vivid  scarlet  cliffs.  I  loved  it  there;  but  of  course 
I  couldn't  stay  when  I  knew  you  wanted  me." 

He  still  followed  her  words  but  vaguely.  He  was 
looking  at  her  deep  violet  eyes,  with  their  curiously 
changing  shades,  at  the  little  flushes  of  carmine  that 
came  and  went  quickly  in  the  white  rose  of  the 
cheek,  at  the  dim  bronze-gold  of  the  coils  of  hair 
gleaming  through  the  green  veil.  He  was  thinking 
of  her  extraordinary  manner,  so  spontaneous — in 
its  way,  so  matter-of-fact.  He  wondered  what 
Hilda  could  possibly  have  told  her,  how  much  of 
his  secret  she  had  betrayed. 

"How  did  you  know  I  wanted  you?"  he  heard 
himself  asking,  as  if  it  was  some  one  else  who  had 
spoken. 

"Mrs.  Grace  told  me.  Besides,  I  should  have 
known  it  in  any  case  as  soon  as  I'd  heard  you  were 
ill.  Or,  rather"  —  she  flashed  on  him  one  of  her 
fine  smiles  —  "or,  rather,  I  should  have  known 
that  I  wanted  you.  It's  that  that  we  feel  when 
people  we  care  for  are  ill  or  in  trouble,  don't  you 
think?  It  isn't  how  much  they  want  to  see  us, 
but  how  much  we  want  to  see  them" 

He  answered  stupidly.     "Is  it?     I  don't  know." 

"Well,  perhaps  a  man  wouldn't  know.  It's  dif 
ferent  with  a  woman,  because  it's  her — her  instinct, 
I  suppose — to  do  things  for  people." 

"What  sort  of  things?" 

"Why,  any  sort  of  things.  How  do  I  know? 
Whatever  needs  to  be  done." 

"I  mean,  what  sort  of  things  would  you  do — 
for  me?" 

500 


THE    WAY    HOME 


She  laughed.  "What  a  funny  question!  You'd 
have  to  be  a  man  to  ask  a  thing  like  that.  When 
you  go  to  see  some  one  you  like — for  the  reason 
I've  come  here  —  you  don't  make  a  program  be 
forehand.  You  simply  come.  You're  on  the  spot. 
If  there's  nothing  to  be  done — why,  then,  so  much 
the  better!  You  just — see." 

"And  did  you  give  up  your  holiday  and  come 
all  the  way  back  just  to — see?" 

She  laughed  again.  "I  wish  you  wouldn't  cate 
chize  me  like  that.  If  I  didn't  know  to  the  con 
trary  I  should  be  tempted  to  think  you  wanted 
me  to  go  away.  I  came  —  since  you  insist  on  my 
saying  it — because  you're  the  best  man  in  the  world, 
except  father — and  you're  ill — and — and" — the 
carmine  flush  ran  in  little  rapid  veins  like  vivid 
lightning  from  the  cheek  to  the  chin,  to  the  ear,  to 
the  temples — "and — and — I  like  you.  Could  any 
one  have  a  better  motive  than  that?" 

"No;  I  suppose  not.  And  did  Hilda  tell  you 
anything  more  than  that  I — I  wanted  you?" 

"She  said  you  wouldn't  get  better  unless  I  came." 

"And  did  you  believe  it?" 

Her  head  went  slightly  to  one  side.  "Well — n-no. 
Frankly,  I  didn't.  But  people  have  those  fancies 
when  they're  ill — or  when  some  one  who's  dear  to 
them  is  ill.  You've  got  to  humor  them.  You  love 
to  humor  them;  don't  you  think  you  do?  I've  had 
people  feel  like  that  about  me  before — I  suppose 
every  one  has — not  people  in  your  class,  of  course — 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  not  any  one  who  was  so — so 
near  to  me  as  you  are." 

"And  is  it  to  humor  me — or  to  humor  Hilda — that 
you've  come  this  time?" 


THE     WAY     HOME 


She  leaned  forward  with  a  sudden  impulse,  grasp 
ing  the  arm  of  his  chair.  "Dear  Mr.  Grace,  you 
ought  to  have  been  a  lawyer.  Isn't  this  what  they 
call  cross-questioning?  Am  I  the  plaintiff  or  the 
defendant,  or  what?  I  must  say  you  don't  seem 
to  me  very  ill." 

"And  if  I'm  not  very  ill,  shall  you  be  sorry  to  have 
come  back?" 

She  was  still  grasping  the  arm  of  his  chair,  but 
she  raised  herself  to  an  upright  position.  Her 
manner  changed  slowly.  She  turned  away  her  face 
till  he  could  see  nothing  but  the  profile,  in  which  the 
carmine  became  fixed.  Her  eyes  were  alternately 
downcast  and  lifted  for  hurried  glances  at  the  sea. 
He  could  barely  catch  the  monosyllable  as  she 
breathed  the  word: 

"No." 

The  instant  was  upon  him  that  he  dreaded  more 
than  that  of  his  approaching  death.  It  was  also  the 
instant  that  might  give  him,  as  in  some  Oriental 
legend,  one  brief  glimpse  into  paradise  before  he 
turned  away  to  hell.  It  was  also  the  instant  that 
could  change,  with  the  chemistry  of  half  a  dozen 
words,  all  the  relative  positions  and  conditions  in 
the  little  world  of  which  he  was  in  some  sort  the 
center — resolving  neutral  calm  into  fleeting,  futile 
joys  and  bitter,  life-long  tragedies.  He  could  hold 
his  peace,  and  leave  things  dully  placid  as  they  were; 
or  with  a  question  or  two  he  could  set  the  spirit 
free  to  scale  heights  and  descend  into  abysses,  and,  like 
Adam  in  Eden,  be  as  a  god,  knowing  good — and  evil. 

Fortunately,  there  was  time.  Her  confession 
would  wait.  Since  she  was  ready  to  make  it,  he 
could  debate  with  himself  whether  it  were  wise  to 

502 


THE     WAY     HOME 


seize  the  moment  of  fatal  rapture — or  let  it  pass. 
It  was  obvious  that,  in  view  of  what  was  coming  on 
him,  it  could  do  no  one  any  good  to  seize  it,  and  yet 
to  let  it  pass  would  be  like  dashing  aside  the  one 
golden  cup  life  had  ever  set  to  his  lips.  It  seemed  like 
an  eternity  that  they  sat  thus — he  motionless,  a  copy 
of  the  Sunday  Leader  across  his  knees;  she  also 
motionless,  erect,  with  face  averted.  He  had  come  to 
no  conclusion  when  he  found  himself  saying,  as 
though  against  his  will : 

"Could  you  tell  me  why — if  I'm  not  very  ill — you 
won't  be  sorry  to  have  come?" 

Her  answer  came  quite  readily:  "I  could  only  tell 
you  if  you  asked  me." 

The  responsibility  being  again  thrown  on  him,  he 
took  a  few  more  minutes  for  meditation.  "Well,  I 
do  ask  you,"  he  ventured  then. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  a  glimmer  of  a  smile  ran 
along  her  lips.  "You  must  ask  me  more  plainly  than 
that." 

So  the  weight  of  the  whole  situation  was  to  be 
on  his  shoulders.  But  he  had  gone  so  far — above 
all,  he  had  let  her  go  so  far — that  it  was  no  longer 
possible  to  hold  back.  Even  so,  he  could  only 
approach  the  subject  warily  and  from  a  distance. 
It  added  force  to  his  temptation  that  Hilda  had,  in 
a  measure,  given  him  her  permission — that  she  might 
be  said  to  have  forced  him  into  a  position  where  he 
could  do  nothing  but  go  on.  Long  minutes  went 
by  before  he  said,  cautiously,  and  yet  with  pulses 
pounding: 

"Has  it  anything  to  do  with — love?" 

She  answered  promptly,  though  faintly,  "Yes." 

"Is  it  love  that  I  know  anything  about?" 
503 


THE     WAY     HOME 


Again  her  response  came  with  surprising  swiftness. 
"Very  likely."  Then  a  second  later:  "I  should 
think  you — must." 

The  response  came  with  surprising  swiftness,  but 
the  head  was  lowered,  and  the  carmine  became 
crimson. 

Suddenly  he  dashed  the  paper  from  his  knees  and 
sprang  to  his  feet.  "I — I  can't  ask  you  any  more." 

Revulsion  had  come  upon  him — revulsion  from 
this  effort  to  drag  a  secret  that,  after  all,  was  a 
guilty  secret,  from  the  soul  of  a  girl  almost  too  pure 
and  too  innocent  to  be  on  earth.  He  might  have 
sunk  low,  he  said  to  himself,  but  he  had  not  sunk 
so  low  as  that.  He  felt  himself  saved.  He  was 
grasping  the  rail  of  the  veranda,  with  stern  eyes 
fixed  seaward,  when  he  heard  her  say,  reproachfully: 

"Oh,  but  I  want  you  to  ask  me.  Ralph  said  that 
if  you  did  ask  me  I  could  tell  you;  but  that  I  wasn't 
to  tell  you  unless — " 

He  turned  to  find  her  sitting  as  she  had  sat  before, 
grasping  the  arm  of  the  chair  from  which  he  had 
risen.  The  only  change  was  in  her  face,  which  was 
now  lifted  to  his  in  almost  childish  disappointment. 

Again  he  felt  that  he  was  saved,  but  that  he  was 
saved — otherwise.  He  was  saved,  not  by  any 
heroic,  godlike  self-control,  but  by  a  humiliation 
more  laughable  than  had  ever  entered  into  the  fate 
of  man.  He  came  very  near  to  laughing  at  it  him 
self.  He  felt  as  if  nothing  could  have  done  him  so 
much  good  as  a  hearty  hysteric  laugh.  He  could 
have  laughed  loud  and  long  and  lustily,  laughed,  as 
the  saying  went,  till  he  brought  the  house  down,  as 
Samson  brought  down  the  temple  of  the  Philistines. 
Not  much  had  been  spared  him  of  late  years;  but 

504 


THE     WAY     HOME 


he  could  see  now  that  other  things  had  come  by  way 
of  the  common  lot.  This  was  something  special, 
something  over  and  above  the  common  lot,  some 
thing  that  could  have  been  invented  only  for  Charlie 
Grace.  The  trick  was  on  so  gigantic  a  scale  that  he 
could  rise  to  it.  He  didn't  know  who  was  in  the 
secret  of  it,  whether  Esther  was,  or  Hilda  was,  or  any 
of  the  sportive  Olympian  gods.  Very  likely  no  one 
was  in  the  secret  but  himself.  Very  likely  it  was 
he,  the  skilful  master-builder  of  his  own  career,  after 
so  long  patting  himself  on  the  back,  with  plaudits 
for  his  ability  to  achieve  success  alone,  who  had 
created  this  situation  for  his  sole  benefit.  In  any 
case,  the  joke  was  so  stupendous  that  he  was  able 
to  respond  to  it  in  the  jocular  vein.  He  spoke 
jovially. 

"So  you're  engaged — at  last!" 

She  blushed  more  deeply,  and  nodded.  "Yes;  at 
last.  I  knew  you'd  be  glad." 

"Of  course  I'm  glad.  Let  me  see!  How  long  is  it 
that  you've  been — in  love  with  him?" 

"It's  really  about  five  years  now — only  I  didn't 
suppose  any  one  could  have  suspected  it  as  early  as 
that." 

He  felt  free  to  laugh  at  last,  but  he  did  that  jovially, 
too.  "Oh,  but  I've  a  pretty  keen  eye — for  things  of 
that  sort." 

"You  must  have.  But  you  won't  say  anything 
about  it  yet,  will  you?  We  haven't  even  told  father 
and  mother.  In  fact,  we're  rather  afraid  to.  Not 
that  father  won't  be  pleased.  He  will  be.  But  poor 
mother  will  feel  badly." 

"Why  should  she — when  you're  marrying  the 
man — the  man" — he  forced  himself  to  say  it, 
33  5°5 


THE     WAY     HOME 


though  he  had  to  make  a  convulsive  movement  of  the 
throat  to  get  the  words  out — "the  man  you've  given 
your  heart  to?" 

"Oh,  well,  for  a  lot  of  reasons.  Poor  mother 
hasn't  always  had  an  easy  time — and  she's  wanted 
me  so  much  to  marry  some  one  with  money." 

"And  why  didn't  you?" 

She  lifted  on  him  shy  eyes  in  which  there  was  a 
gleam  of  laughter.  "Well,  no  one  with  money  ever 
asked  me,  for  one  thing.  And  if  he  had  asked  me, 
how  could  I,  when  all  these  years  I've — I've  been 
in  love  with  Ralph?" 

He  left  the  rail  against  which  he  had  been  leaning, 
and  crossed  the  veranda  to  the  living-room  door. 
"Hilda!"  he  called.  "Hilda!" 

There  was  no  reply.  He  went  into  the  room,  and 
to  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  "Hilda!  Come  down! 
There's  great  news  to  tell  you — if  you  haven't  heard 
it  already." 

There  was  a  faint  response  from  Hilda's  room, 
whereupon  he  returned  to  his  place  beside  the  rail  of 
the  veranda. 

Esther  was  still  sitting  where  he  had  left  her. 
"No;  Mrs.  Grace  doesn't  know  it,"  she  explained. 
"I  didn't  feel  at  liberty  to  tell  her.  Ralph  doesn't 
want  me  to  tell  any  one  till  he's  spoken  to  father 
and  mother.  He  only  made  an  exception  of  you. 
You've  been  so  dear  and  kind  to  us  both — and  we've 
felt  that  you  did  know,  anyhow — so  that  Ralph  said 
that  if  you  were  to  ask  me — " 

"When  did  Ralph  say  all  this?" 

"Only  the  other  day — just  before  Mrs.  Grace 
arrived  at  Fanny's.  Ralph  came  to  Charlottetown, 
and  I  went  over  to  see  him.  I  couldn't  tell  Fanny, 

506 


THE     WAY     HOME 


because  she'd  given  her  promise  to  mother  not  to 
invite  Ralph  to  Keppoch  while  I  was  there.  When 
he  wrote  that  he  was  coming  to  Charlottetown  I 
knew  what  it  was  for — and  I  couldn't  let  him  take 
the  long  journey  for  nothing,  could  I?  So  I  went 
over  and  spent  the  morning  with  him  in  a  beautiful 
park  overlooking  a  bay — not  the  same  bay  I  spoke 
of  before — or  else  another  part  of  that  bay — " 

"And  so  you  became  engaged?" 

"But  nobody  knows  anything  about  it  but  you — 
and  now  Mrs.  Grace  will  know.  But  you  both  must 
have  known  how  we  felt — Ralph  and  I — " 

"Oh,  of  course!     Of  course!" 

"And  that's  why  I  sha'n't  be  sorry  to  have  come 
back  even  if  you  don't  need  me.  Ralph  is  in  New 
York." 

Hilda  appeared  in  the  frame  of  the  French  window. 
She  had  taken  off  her  dust-cloak  and  her  veil,  and 
was  in  white.  Now  that  he  could  see  her  face  he 
noticed  its  pallor.  He  noticed  the  wan  deadness  of 
her  eyes.  They  had  grown  big  and  hollow  and 
mournful  and  lusterless,  as  her  mother's  used  to  be. 
He  began  to  get  some  idea  of  the  journey  she  had 
taken  in  order  to  make  him  happy  and  save  his  life. 

For  the  moment,  however,  the  jocular  spirit  pos 
sessed  him  up  to  the  danger-point.  The  slightest  de 
parture  from  it  would  be  perilous.  He  waved  his 
hand  airily  toward  Esther  as  he  spoke. 

"What  do  you  think,  Hilda?  That  shameless 
young  woman  there  has  been  and  gone  and  got  her 
self  engaged!" 

Esther  turned  slowly  in  her  chair  toward  Hilda, 
lifting  on  her  the  same  shy  eyes  with  their  glimmer  of 
amusement.  For  support  Hilda  held  to  the  sides  of 

507 


THE     WAY     HOME 


the  French  window.  Her  pallor  became  waxlike; 
her  eyes  immense.  The  resemblance  to  her  mother 
was  more  striking  than  ever.  She  glanced  from 
Esther  to  Charlie  Grace  and  from  Charlie  Grace 
back  to  Esther.  It  was  not  relief  she  showed  so 
much  as  fear.  Her  lips  moved,  but  she  seemed 
powerless  to  say  a  word. 

It  was  Charlie  Grace  who  broke  the  spell.  "Go 
and  kiss  her.  Kiss  her  for  us  both.  Kiss  her — for 
me.  And  tell  her  how  much  we  hope  she's  going  to 
be  happy." 

With  these  words  he  went  down  the  steps  leading 
to  the  greensward,  and  from  thence  to  the  long, 
rickety  flight  of  stairs  descending  to  the  shore. 
But  he  took  care  not  to  be  out  of  sight  before  Hilda 
could  follow  him  with  her  gaze  and  see  that  he  was 
nonchalantly  lighting  a  cigar. 


CHAPTER  VII 

"  TT  was   that  poor  woman,  Hattie   Bright.     How 

1  could  I  refuse  to  do  what  she  was  capable  of 
doing?" 

"  But  I  don't  see  the  resemblance  between  the  two 
things." 

"If  you  could  look  into  my  heart — or  follow  the 
workings  of  my  mind — you  would,  Charlie." 

"Her  motive  was  to — " 

"To  save  the  man  she  cared  for.  So  was  mine. 
It  was  another  kind  of  saving,  it's  true,  but  it  was  the 
same  process.  What  she  couldn't  do  for  him  she  had 
to  surrender  to  another." 

"A  good  deal  depends  on  what  you  mean  by 
saving." 

"What  I  mean  by  it  now  is  your  getting  well,  Charlie 
— your  being  happy  again.  I  don't  care  for  anything 
— anything  in  the  world — so  much  as  that.  Surely 
you'll  let  me  feel  that  much !  You  must  let  me  feel  it, 
whether  you  will  or  no — because  I  see  now  how 
much  harm  I've  done  you." 

"Do  you?     It's  more  than  I  do." 

"Very  likely,  Charlie.  You're  so  kind.  But  it's 
very  plain  to  me  that  another  kind  of  woman  would 
have  made  you  another  kind  of  man." 

"What  other  kind  of  woman?" 

r    "A  nobler  kind;  a  broader,  and  less  suspicious,  and 
more  generous  kind;  a  woman  like  Esther  Legrand." 

509 


THE     WAY     HOME 


"And  so  you  made  up  your  mind  to" — he  debated 
with  himself  whether  to  use  the  word  or  not,  deciding 
to  utter  it — "y°u  made  up  your  mind  to — to  sacrifice 
her  to  me — to  throw  the  princess  to  the  ogre." 

"You  couldn't  sacrifice  her,  Charlie — not  any  more 
than  you  could  sacrifice  music  or  light  or  air.  It 
wouldn't  be  within  our  power.  There  are  things  so 
lofty  that  we've  no  control  over  them.  They  only 
get  control  over  us.  It  never  occurred  to  me  that 
if  she  came  here  any  harm  could  come  of  it.  I  knew 
there  could  be  nothing  but  good." 

"What  kind  of  good?  What  did  you  think  could 
come  of  it — exactly?" 

"I  didn't  know — exactly.  I  didn't  think — ex 
actly.  I  didn't  think  anything,  or  know  anything, 
but  that  you  were  ill  and  unhappy — and  that  I 
couldn't  help  you,  while  she  could.  You  don't  sup 
pose  it  was  easy  for  me  to  come  to  that  conclusion, 
do  you?  I  wouldn't  have  come  to  it  at  all  if  it 
hadn't  been  forced  on  me.  I'll  tell  you  something, 
Charlie,  that  will  show  you  what  I  mean.  During 
the  past  five  or  six  years  I've  tried  to  hate  her — and 
I  never  could.  She  was  so  simple  and  serene  and 
so  far  above  me  that  it  was  like  trying  to  hate  the 
sky.  One  only  hates  oneself  for  not  loving  it." 

"And  did  you  think  /  loved — the  sky?" 

"I  think  you  saw  it  was  the  sky." 

He  hung  his  head  in  the  darkness.  He  thought 
he  had  run  the  gamut  of  all  the  kinds  of  shame,  but 
this  was  striking  a  new  note  of  it.  He  had  seen  it 
was  the  sky,  and,  misled  by  an  ambitious  old  woman 
and  a  sweet,  tender-hearted  old  maid,  had  tried  to 
drag  it  down  to  him.  He  had  seen  it  was  the  sky, 
and  was  dissatisfied  because  it  was  not  the  mire.  It 


THE     WAY     HOME 


seemed  to  him  that  he  had  never  been  aware  of  the 
real  degeneration  of  his  soul  till  then. 

He  was  so  long  silent  that  Hilda's  hand  stole 
timidly  toward  him,  touching  his  knee.  His  own 
closed  over  hers,  and  for  some  minutes  they  sat 
thus,  without  speaking.  It  was  a  warm  night,  with  a 
wild  damp  wind  that  blew  in  their  faces.  On  the 
shore  below  the  sea  pounded  heavily.  A  scudding 
rain  obscured  all  lights  except  those  of  a  steamer  that 
bobbed  up  and  down  as  she  passed  eastward  to 
Newport  or  Fall  River.  Within  the  house  at  this 
late  hour  all  was  still.  The  only  lamp  left  burning 
was  the  hanging  one  in  the  hall,  which  threw  dim 
rays  into  the  living-room. 

With  this  evening  Charlie  Grace  was  entering  on 
what  he  called  the  last  act.  Up  to  a  few  minutes  ago 
he  had  been  doing  it  triumphantly,  the  jocular  spirit 
standing  by  him  throughout  the  day.  He  had 
telephoned  to  Ralph  Coningsby  to  come  down  and 
spend  the  afternoon,  and  at  dinner  they  had  pledged 
his  happiness  and  Esther's  in  champagne.  It  grati 
fied  him  that  Hilda  should  perceive  his  lead  and 
follow  it.  Though  she  did  so  with  some  mystifica 
tion  at  his  mood,  she  played  up,  as  he  expressed  it, 
as  effectively  as  on  the  day  of  the  luncheon  with 
Hattie  Bright.  It  was  only  after  Ralph  Coningsby 
had  gone  to  the  station,  and  Esther  had  retired,  that 
husband  and  wife  could  speak  with  each  other  alone. 

"Hilda,  come  here,"  he  had  said,  and  she  followed 
him  out  into  the  misty  darkness.  After  the  heat  of 
the  day  the  damp  wind  was  refreshing,  while  the 
darkness  was  a  relief  to  both  of  them.  She  came  to 
him  obediently,  crouching  on  a  footstool  that  stood 
near  his  chair.  He  felt  that  she  had  no  idea  how  he 

5" 


THE     WAY     HOME 


was  going  to  take  her  extraordinary  act  in  bringing 
Esther  Legrand  to  Rosyth.  He  knew  it  by  the 
questioning  looks  with  which  she  had  watched  him 
during  the  day,  as  well  as  by  the  way  in  which  she 
now  sat  humbly  silent,  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  It 
was  long  before  he  was  able  to  find  what  seemed  to 
him  the  right  words.  He  did  his  best  to  be  gentle, 
without  being  able  to  keep  an  inflection  of  reproach 
altogether  out  of  his  voice. 

"What  made  you  do  it?" 

There  was  a  catch,  a  sob,  in  her  throat  as  she 
said:  •  "It  was  that  poor  woman,  Hattie  Bright. 
How  could  I  refuse  to  do  what  she  was  capable  of 
doing?" 

So  for  a  few  minutes  they  talked,  till  silence  fell 
between  them.  For  Hilda  there  was  at  least  the 
reassurance  that  his  hand  closed  over  hers  as  it 
rested  on  his  knee. 

As  for  Charlie  Grace,  he  passed  from  the  thought 
of  his  own  moral  disintegration  to  say  to  himself, 
"So  it  was  Hattie — poor  old  Hattie!"  It  made  the 
mystery  of  life  deeper  when  he  went  on  to  add,"  And 
it  was  Ellis — poor  old  Ellis!"  While  he  could  ex 
plain  nothing  to  Hilda,  seeing  that  she  still  believed 
Hattie  to  have  begged  her  to  come  to  the  luncheon 
at  the  Blitz,  yet  it  struck  him  as  singular  that  Ellis's 
revenge  and  Hattie's  moral  code  should  have  given 
to  a  good  woman  like  Hilda  the  impulse  to  what  was, 
after  all,  the  sublime  act  of  her  life.  It  might  have 
been  a  foolish  act,  or  a  misguided  act,  or  the  act  of  a 
woman  frantic  or  morbid  with  self-reproach,  but  he 
made  no  question  as  to  its  nobility.  And  without 
Ellis  she  might  never  have  thought  of  it;  without 
Hattie  she  might  never  have  been  spurred  to  such 

512 


THE     WAY     HOME 


self-abnegation;  and  without  the  self-abnegation  he 
might  never  have  come  to  feel,  as  he  felt  now,  that 
he  knew  her  at  last.  He  pressed  her  hand — timidly, 
on  his  part — he  pushed  his  chair  a  little  nearer  her 
as  his  mind  dwelt  on  the  complicated  nature  of  hu 
man  relationships  and  the  interweaving  of  fates. 

It  was  Hilda  who  broke  the  silence,  speaking 
tremulously. 

"If  you  think  that  by  asking  her  to  come  here  I 
put  her  in  a  dangerous  position — which  is  what  I 
gather  you  do  think — I  want  to  say  that  you  can't 
put  a  woman  like  that  in  a  dangerous  position — not 
any  more  than  they  could  put  Daniel  in  a  dangerous 
position  when  they  threw  him  into  a  den  of  lions. 
Goodness  is  a  protection  in  itself.  And  more  than 
that:  where  you  have  good  people,  only  good  things 
can  happen." 

"And  among  the  good  things  that  might  happen 
was  one  of  them  that  you  and  I — should  part?" 

"I  didn't  go  as  far  as  that,  Charlie.  I  didn't  look 
ahead  at  all.  I  didn't  know  what  might  happen.  I 
didn't  really  care — so  long  as  the  best  thing  happened 
for  you." 

"But  what  did  you  think  that  would  be? — the 
best  thing  for  me." 

"I  had  no  idea.  I  couldn't  see.  I  couldn't  think. 
If  it  had  come  to  that — to  our  parting — I  should 
have  had  to  bring  myself  to  it.  I  felt  that  you 
were  ill  and  unhappy — that  you  were  like  a  prisoner 
— shut  in  and  longing  for — the  sky!  Oh,  Charlie, 
don't  blame  me  too  much.  I  dare  say  I  was  all 
wrong — but  I  did  the  best  I  could." 

She  bowed  her  head  on  the  back  of  his  hand  that 
held  hers.  He  could  feel  two  or  three  tears  fall  on 


THE     WAY     HOME 


it.  "I'm  not  blaming  you,  darling.  I  only  feel — I 
have  to  feel — how  utterly — how  horribly — unworthy 
I  am." 

She  lifted  her  head  to  say,  suddenly,  "Was  I  so 
very  wrong,  then,  Charlie?" 

He  gained  a  moment's  time  by  parrying  her 
question.  "Wrong  about  what?" 

"About  thinking  that  you  did  long  to  see — the 
sky?" 

He  considered  the  wisdom  of  answering  this,  tak 
ing  his  time.  During  a  space  of  three  or  four  min 
utes  there  was  no  sound  but  that  of  the  monotonous 
thundering  of  the  waves  on  the  shore  below  them. 
"Why  do  you  want  to  know?"  he  asked,  as  the  result 
of  his  thinking. 

"I  don't  want  to  know  if  you'd  rather  not  tell 
me." 

Again  the  billows  broke  with  monotonous  crashing 
while  he  reflected.  "It  isn't  so  much  that  I  don't 
want  to  tell  you  as  that  there's  nothing  to  tell." 
The  truth  of  these  words,  which  seemed  to  utter 
themselves  without  his  volition,  impressed  him  so 
much  that  he  proceeded  to  enlarge  on  them.  He 
spoke  slowly,  with  hesitations,  searching  for  the 
right  expressions.  "It's  very  curious,  Hilda  .  .  . 
but  there  are  times  in  life  when  certain  things  .  .  . 
interests  or  emotions  ...  or  whatever  you  like  to 
call  them  .  .  .  seem  to  come  to  an  end.  .  .  .  They 
not  only  come  to  an  end  .  .  .  but  they  go  out  of 
existence.  .  .  .  They  not  only  go  out  of  existence  as 
regards  the  future  .  .  .  but  they're  dissolved  as  re 
gards  the  past.  .  .  .  They're  as  if  they  hadn't  been. 
.  .  .  They  never  were.  ...  I  can't  explain  it.  ... 
You  wouldn't  understand  it  if  I  could  explain.  .  .  . 

SH 


THE     WAY     HOME 


You'd  have  to  go  through  just  this  sort  of  experi- 

» 
ence.  .  .  . 

"What  sort  of  experience,  Charlie,  dear?" 

Again  he  was  obliged  to  reflect  as  to  what  he  could 
and  what  he  could  not  tell  her.  It  was  a  question  of 
being  merciful.  Would  it  be  easier  for  her  to  know  at 
once,  and  so  prepare  herself?  Or  was  it  best  to  let 
the  happenings  of  the  next  two  years  bring  conviction 
gradually  home  to  her?  He  didn't  know.  He  could 
only  temporize.  "That's  also  something  I  can't 
explain.  .  .  .  You'll  see  ...  by  degrees.  All  I  can 
tell  you  now  is  that  there  is  something  that  acts  as  a 
kind  of  solvent.  .  .  .  The  things  that  are  not  essen 
tial  to  us  ...  that  don't  really  belong  to  us  ... 
seem  to  melt  in  it  ...  melt  .  .  .  dissolve  ...  is 
the  only  word  I  can  find  .  .  .  while  the  things  that 
are  really  permanent  to  us  remain." 

"It  must  be  a  very  great  experience  indeed  that 
can  work  such  a  change  as  that." 

"It  is  a  very  great  experience  indeed." 

She  raised  her  head  again,  peering  up  at  him 
through  the  darkness.  "Charlie,  have  you  seen  a 
doctor  while  I've  been  away?" 

He  knew  there  were  certain  things  he  must  tell  her, 
and  that  he  might  as  well  do  it  now.  "Yes;  that's 
it.  I've  been  to  see  Furny.  I  went  also  to  see  an 
old  chap  he  recommended,  a  Dr.  Valenty." 

"I've  heard  of  him." 

"They  both  say  I'm  in  pretty  bad  shape  .  .  .  and 
that  I  must  ...  be  careful."  She  drew  closer  to  him, 
pressing  his  hand  to  her  lips.  "I  shall  have  to  give 
up  ...  my  job  .  .  .  and  go  slow.  .  .  .  Next  win 
ter  we  shall  have  to  go  away  somewhere  ...  to 
Florida,  or  the  Riviera,  or  some  other  warm  climate. 


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.  .  .  After  that  ...  we  must  .  .  .  see."  He  knew 
she  was  about  to  ask  a  question,  and  hurried  on 
before  she  could  speak.  "And  when  a  man  comes  to 
that  ...  he  begins  to  realize  that  .  .  .  that  there's 
a  difference  in  life  between  the  .  .  .  the  vital  .  .  . 
and  the  non-essential.  .  .  .  You're  the  vital  to  me, 
Hilda  .  .  .  you  and  the  kids.  .  .  .  There's  nothing 
else." 

She  kissed  his  hand  again  and  again.  "Oh, 
Charlie,  my  beloved!  And  I  was  trying  to  make 
myself  think  that  perhaps  I  ought  to  —  to  let 
you  go!" 

His  hand  rested  lightly  on  her  hair.  "That's 
where  you  were  wrong,  dear  .  .  .  and  yet  you  were 
right,  too.  .  .  .  Perhaps  if  you  hadn't  done  it  the 
solvent  wouldn't  have  worked.  ...  I  don't  know 
.  .  .  I'm  too  confused  about  the  whole  thing  .  .  . 
I'm  all  astray.  .  .  .  I'm  like  a  man  wandering  in  a 
labyrinth  that  he'll  never  get  out  of.  ...  I've  been  a 
bad  fellow,  Hilda  .  .  .  and  now  I  see  what  it's  made 
of  me.  ...  I  don't  know  that  it  does  any  good  to 
talk  about  it  ...  and  as  a  matter  of  fact  there's 
more  than  I  can  tell  you  in  words  .  .  .  but  you'll  see 
for  yourself  ...  as  time  goes  on.  ...  In  the  mean 
while  .  .  .  one  great  thing  is  clear,  Hilda  .  .  .  I've 
found  you  ...  I  know  you  ...  I  know  you  as  I 
didn't  know  you  .  .  .  and  I  shall  never  leave  you 
.  .  .  nor  let  you  leave  me  .  .  .  till  I  ...  till  I  ... 
die." 

She  threw  back  her  head,  grasping  his  arm  passion 
ately.  "Oh  no;  you  don't  know  me,  Charlie.  You 
don't  know  how  hard  and  narrow  and  cruel  I've  been. 
I  never  knew  it  myself  until  I  saw  something  big  and 
generous  in  that  poor  Hattie  Bright.  Or,  rather,  I 

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did  know  it — but  the  knowledge  was  frozen  inside 
me.  She  seemed  to  set  it  free.  She  made  me — 
human.  She  showed  me  how  a  woman  who's  had  all 
the  chances  can  be  petty  and  mean — and — and — 
jealous — yes,  wickedly  jealous — and  that  another 
who's  had  everything — or  nearly  everything — against 
her  can  still  be  fine.  There's  something  I  must  tell 
you,  Charlie.  I  must.  It's  a  confession.  I  can't  rest 
till  I've  made  it.  When  I  said  a  few  weeks  ago  that 
I  wouldn't — wouldn't  release  you — it  wasn't  for  the 
children's  sake,  as  I  said  it  was.  Or,  at  least,  it  was 
only  a  little  for  their  sakes.  It  was  chiefly  for  my 
own.  I  was  thinking  of  myself  and  my  claims  first 
of  all.  I  was  proud;  I  was  self-centered.  I  wanted 
to  hold  you.  I  wanted  to  make  you  feel  that  you 
were  mine — that  you  couldn't  get  away.  I  wanted 
to  make  you  suffer — as  I  had  suffered.  But,  oh, 
Charlie!  when  I  saw  you  were  suffering  I  couldn't 
bear  it.  It  was  easier  for  me  to  give  you  up — if 
I  had  to — if  it  were  to  come  to  that — than  to  see  you 
so  worn  and  unhappy — " 

He  slipped  his  hand  over  her  lips.  "Hush,  hush, 
hush!"  he  whispered.  "What  does  it  matter  now? 
Don't  let  us  explain  any  more — either  of  us.  As  far 
as  I'm  concerned,  I  love  you,  Hilda.  I  know  I  love 
you.  I  don't  love — any  one  else — not  this  way.  I 
see  now — let  me  say  it  once  for  all — that  even  the 
sky  will  be  to  me  in  future — just  the  sky." 

"Very  high  and  pure  and  above  us,"  she  said,  softly. 

"If  you  like.  But  for  the  rest,  the  only  important 
thing  is  that  we've  found  each  other  at  last;  and 
now  it  will  be  till  death  us  do  part.  Won't  it?" 

For  a  few  minutes  she  sobbed  quietly.  Of  the 
things  he  had  to  bring  home  to  her  he  was  glad  to 


THE     WAY    HOME 


see  that  for  the  moment  very  little  had  found  its 
way.     There  would  be  time  enough  for  that. 

On  the  Wednesday  following,  Esther  Legrand, 
finding  the  need  of  her  presence  at  Rosyth  less  urgent 
than  she  had  supposed,  went  up  to  Vandiver  Place. 
On  Friday  she  wrote  to  say,  among  other  things,  that 
Remnant  had  taken  a  turn  for  the  worse,  and  would 
probably  not  recover.  She  begged  Hilda  to  ask 
her  husband,  when  he  was  next  in  town,  to  look  in 
on  the  old  man,  to  whom  the  visit  would  be  a  com 
fort.  This  Charlie  Grace  accomplished  early  in  the 
succeeding  week,  finding  it  a  new  experience. 

He  had  not  been  in  the  part  of  the  long  straight 
street,  crossing  Manhattan  Island  from  river  to  river, 
in  which  Remnant  had  his  lodging,  since  he  was  a 
boy.  Even  then  the  neighborhood  had  taken  on  the 
shabby-genteel  character  which  it  had  retained  in 
spite  of  that  march  of  progress  which  in  New  York 
generally  converts  the  shabby-genteel  into  a  slum. 
The  worst  that  could  be  said  of  it  now  was  that  many 
of  its  blocks  were  the  haunt  of  fruitful  families  of 
Semitic  or  Slavic  origin,  who  confided  their  broods 
to  the  streets  as  cheerfully  as  a  duck  yields  hers  to  the 
water.  If  they  strewed  the  pavements  with  refuse, 
and  now  and  then  some  promising  infant  lost  its  life 
beneath  a  horse's  hoofs  or  the  wheels  of  a  dray,  it  was 
no  more  than  was  to  be  expected  of  an  arrangement 
in  which  the  same  half-mile  stretch  served  as  nursery, 
playground,  and  thoroughfare  at  once,  defying  the 
most  enthusiastic  scavenger. 

Fortunately  for  his  self-respect,  Remnant's  last 
earthly  residence  lay  outside  the  Semitic  and  Slavic 
spheres  of  influence,  in  a  part  of  the  long  street  that, 

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like  the  thin  red  line  at  Balaklava,  still  held  out  for 
Anglo-Saxon  domination,  contributing  most  of  the 
genuine  parishioners  to  St.  David's.  It  was  safe  to 
say  that  Rufus  Legrand  was  loved  and  revered  by 
allvthe  occupants  of  these  modest  brick  and  brown- 
stone  dwellings  even  while  they  deprecated  his 
whimsical  policy  of  treating  Poles  and  Russians  and 
Jews  as  men  of  like  passions  with  "born"  Americans 
and  natives  of  the  British  Isles.  These  feelings 
could  easily  have  been  ascribed  to  the  plump  little 
lady  who  opened  the  door  to  Charlie  Grace,  in  one 
of  the  houses  of  a  row  standing  back  from  the  street, 
from  which  it  was  secluded  by  tiny  grass-plots  and 
much  cast-iron  railing.  Two  or  three  grimy  acacia 
trees,  with  the  gaunt,  expatriated  look  of  jungle  ani 
mals  caged  in  a  northern  zoo,  emphasized  the  dignity 
of  the  row,  as  compared  with  its  surroundings.  The 
plump  little  lady  greeted  Charlie  Grace  with  a  smile. 

"Won't  you  step  in,  sir?  Mr.  Remnant  will  be 
very  pleased  to  see  you.  I  know  who  you  are,  sir; 
because  he  never  stops  talking  of  Mr.  Gryce.  He's 
so  fond  of  you,  sir,  that  I  fill  right  up  every  time  he 
mentions  your  nyme." 

The  plump  little  lady  had  a  cheerful  English  com 
plexion  and  a  sweet  English  voice  to  which  the 
cockney  accent  was  only  a  charm.  Charlie  Grace 
accepted  her  invitation  and  stepped  into  the  narrow 
hall,  from  which  a  straight  staircase,  curving  slightly 
at  the  top,  led  to  the  next  floor. 

"I'm  sorry  I  didn't  know  he  was  so  ill  or  I  would 
have  come  before." 

"He  is  bad,  sir,  and  very  'ard  to  tyke  care  of, 
through  being  so  impatient.  He's  not  used  to  being 
treated  as  a  sick  man,  which  makes  him  use  language 


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1  shouldn't  'ave  expected  from  one  who'd  been  so 
long  in  the  Church.  I  couldn't  repeat  it,  sir,  not  if  it 
was  ever  so.  It  makes  me  fill  right  up  to  'ear  him. 
There's  only  one  person  who  can  control  him,  sir, 
and  that's  the  young  lydy.  She's  with  him  now,  sir, 
if  you'll  be  pleased  to  step  up.  I'm  sure  she  won't 
mind.  The  door  on  the  left  at  the  'ead  of  the  stairs, 
sir.  You'll  find  it  'alf  open,  so  as  to  give  him  the  air." 
At  the  curve  toward  the  top  of  the  stairs  he  could 
already  hear  Esther's  voice,  and  when  on  the  landing 
outside  the  door  he  could  catch  her  words.  He  saw 
her  through  the  opening,  though  she  did  not  see  him. 
She  had  apparently  not  heard  him,  either,  for  she  was 
leaning  maternally  toward  Remnant,  one  hand  rest 
ing  lightly  on  the  brass  knob  at  the  head  of  his  little 
iron  bedstead,  while  the  other  fanned  him  slowly  with 
an  old  palm-leaf  fan.  Remnant's  bed  being  turned 
away  from  the  door,  all  that  Charlie  Grace  could  see 
of  the  old  man  himself  was  the  top  of  the  little  gray 
head — on  which  the  long  hair  was  tousled  and  thin — 
just  emerging  from  the  pillow.  Directly  opposite  the 
half-open  door  was  an  antiquated  chimney-piece  of 
black  marble,  streaked  with  yellow.  Above  it  hung  a 
faded  photograph  of  the  Tower  of  London,  evidently 
furnished  by  the  plump  little  lady,  while  the  fire 
place  was  occupied  by  a  paper  Japanese  parasol, 
artistically  open.  On  the  mantelpiece  stood  Rem 
nant's  particular  treasures,  among  them,  as  Charlie 
Grace  was  touched  to  see,  an  old  photograph  of  his 
own  mother  seated  at  a  table,  her  chin  resting  pen 
sively  on  her  hand,  her  chignon  and  flounces  dis 
played  in  a  three-quarters  view,  and  a  larger  picture 
of  the  old  rector  of  St.  David's,  wearing  his  surplice 
and  stole,  and  framed  in  glued  fir-cones. 

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It  was  because  Esther  seemed  to  be  saying  some 
thing  special  that  Charlie  Grace  hesitated  to  go  in. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you'll  like  it  as  much  as  I 
do,  Remnant,  but  I'll  say  it  to  you,  and  you  can  see. 
It's  a  translation  from  the  German  that  I  cut  from 
the  Church  Weekly  ever  so  long  ago.  I've  said  it  to 
a  good  many  sick  people,  and  they  generally  have 
liked  it." 

"You  can  please  yourself,  miss,"  Remnant  said, 
querulously.  "I  don't  hold  much  with  them  Church 
Weekly  s;  never  no  news  in  'em.  A  good  murder,  now, 
or  a  trial — that's  the  kind  o'  readin'  I  like.  But 
Miss  Smedley  was  forever  dosing  me  with  them 
Church  Weekly s.  i  There  ain't  a  good  murder  goin' 
on  now,  miss,  is  there,  do  you  know?  If  there  was 
it  'u'd  kind  o'  cheer  me  up." 

"I  don't  know,  Remnant;  but  I'll  find  out.  I'll 
ask  Mr.  Coningsby.  It  begins  with  the  words  from 
St.  John's  Gospel:  'Lord,  we  know  not  whither  thou 
goest,  and  how  can  we  know  the  way?  Jesus  saith 
unto  him,  I  am  the  Way.  .  .  .  No  man  cometh  unto 
the  Father  but  by  me.'  It  begins — " 

But  Charlie  Grace  slipped  down  to  the  end  of  the 
narrow  hall,  where  he  stood  looking  out  into  the 
street,  while  Esther  repeated  the  verses.  Her  voice 
reached  him  only  as  a  faint  murmur,  though  the 
phrases  he  caught  now  and  then  brought  back  to 
him  the  didactic,  pietistic  literature  that  had  been 
familiar  to  him  in  his  youth.  Given  the  text  she  had 
announced,  he  could  almost,  from  old  memories,  have 
fitted  the  words  to  it  himself.  For  the  first  time  in 
his  life  it  struck  him  as  inconceivable  that  any  living 
being  could  ever  have  said,  "I  am  the  Way,"  and 
have  found  others  ready  to  take  him  seriously.  He 

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felt  that  he  had  never  before  done  justice  to  that 
extraordinary  fact. 

He  crept  back  to  Remnant's  door  as  Esther  was 
beginning  on  her  closing  verse.  Making  him  a  sign 
of  welcome,  she  pointed  to  a  chair  within  the  room, 
continuing  her  recitation.  It  was  not,  however,  till 
she  had  brought  the  lines  to  an  end  that  he  obeyed 
her,  tiptoeing  in,  so  as  not  to  disturb  her  conversa 
tion  with  the  old  man. 

"Do  you  see  what  it  means,  Remnant?"  she 
asked,  as  she  arranged  the  sheet  more  comfortably 
beneath  his  chin. 

His  reply  came  with  a  complaining  sigh.  "If  I 
can't  understand  that,  miss,  it's  time  I  did.  But  I 
never  could  abide  them  Church  Weekly s."  He  added, 
with  another  sigh,  "  There's  something  I  should  like 
to  ask  you,  miss.", 

"Ask  me  anything  you  like,  dear  Remnant,  and 
if  I  can  I'll  answer  you." 

"It's  something  I  should  more  fitter  ask  your  pa, 
miss;  but  him  and  me  don't  see  eye  to  eye  about 
religion,  as  old  Dr.  Grace  used  to  say.  'Remnant,' 
he'd  say,  just  like  that,  miss;  'you  and  me  don't 
see  eye  to  eye,'  he'd  say.  He'd  say  it  about  dust  or 
he'd  say  it  about  dinner.  It  didn't  matter  to  him, 
miss.  It  was  just,  'Remnant,  you  and  me  don't  see 
eye  to  eye!'  Ah,  them  was  times,  miss.  Nothm' 
like  it  now.  Your  pa  is  a  good  man,  and  I  wouldn't 
set  you  agin  him  for  the  world;  only  he  don't  under 
stand  religion.  Never  did.  I  mind  him  when  he 
first  come  back  from  England,  after  he'd  got  his 
eddication,  like — tall,  fine  man  he  was,  and  your  ma 
the  prettiest  little  piece  you'd  see  in  Broadway. 
She  knowed  religion  right  off,  she  did.  Had  a  natural 

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born  turn  for  it,  you  might  say.  Keep  the  church 
decent,  was  her  motto.  Keep  out  the  riffraff;  but 
your  pa — " 

Esther  looked  over  the  bed  toward  Charlie  Grace, 
who  was  smiling  quietly.  "  Didn't  you  say  there  was 
something  you  wanted  to  ask  me,  Remnant?  I'll 
answer  it  if  I  can,  you  know." 

"Yes,  miss,  there  is;  but  I  don't  hardly  like  to 
trouble  you  with  it.  Religion's  all  to  pieces  nowa 
days." 

"If  I  can  do  anything  or  say  anything  that  will 
help  you,  Remnant — 

"Well,  it's  just  this,  miss.  Do  you  know  if  that 
there  Jimmy  Page  has  taken  down  the  furnace  pipes 
and  cleaned  'em  for  the  summer?" 

"I  don't  know;   but  I  can  find  out." 

"Like  as  not  he  hasn't;  and  they'll  rust  and  wear 
out,  and  next  winter  the  heat  '11  not  go  along  'em. 
That's  another  thing  in  which  me  and  your  pa  don't 
agree — having  a  convick  to  work  about  the  church." 

"Oh,  he  isn't  a  convict,  exactly,  Remnant.  He 
was  in  jail  for  a  while,  it's  true;  but  he's  trying  to  do 
his  best,  and  he  found  it  very  hard  to  get  work. 
Who  should  help  a  man  like  that  if  it  isn't  the 
Church?" 

"And  that's  how  religion  gets  a  bad  name,  miss, 
if  you'll  allow  me  to  say  so — not  keeping  respectable. 
He  don't  think  about  the  Church,  he  don't.  It's 
theayters  he  thinks  about.  He's  been  twice  to  the 
theayter  since  he's  been  out  o'  jail.  What  do  you 
think  o'  that?  Ah,  well;  I  hope  Miss  Smedley 
won't  take  it  into  her  head  to  pop  off  while  I'm  here 
on  this  bed  o'  sickness.  She'd  never  get  over  it,  to 
be  buried  by  that  there  Jimmy  Page;  and  I  don't 

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believe  as  I  should  ever  get  over  it,  neither.  I  pray 
as  the  Lord  '11  spare  me  to  bury  old  Miss  Smedley. 
I  don't  ask  for  no  more  than  that.  Then  I'll  have 
nearly  all  the  old  gang  under  ground — except  Mr. 
Charlie  and  one  or  two  others.  I  used  to  think 
as  I  might  live  to  bury  him;  but  I've  given  up  the 
hope  o'  that,  now  as  I'm  so  sick — " 
'  Charlie  Grace  got  up  and  went  forward.  "Oh,  I 
wouldn't  do  that,  if  I  were  you,  Remnant,"  he 
laughed.  "There's  no  telling.  You  may  get  the 
job  yet." 

"Well,  well,  well,  well,  well!  To  think  as  you  was 
there  a-listenin'  to  me,  sonny,  and  me  not  knowin' 
it.  Well,  well!  I  haven't  had  nothing  so  auxilarat- 
ing  since  I  was  sick,  have  I,  miss?" 

A  gleam  came  back  into  the  little  old  eyes  not 
unlike  the  twinkle  of  thirty  years  earlier.  Neverthe 
less,  Charlie  Grace  was  shocked  by  the  change  illness 
had  wrought  in  his  lifelong  friend.  The  skin  was 
shriveled;  eyes,  cheeks,  and  mouth  were  sunken; 
the  chin  was  stubby  with  a  week's  growth  of  grisly 
beard.  It  made  the  approach  of  death  the  more 
abhorrent,  the  more  appalling.  There  was  an  in 
stant  in  which  he  pictured  himself  passing  into  this 
stage  and  taking  this  way. 

While  greetings  were  being  exchanged  the  girl 
rose,  bidding  Remnant  good-by  for  the  afternoon. 
She  had  a  few  things  to  talk  over  with  Mrs.  Williams, 
the  plump  lady,  she  said,  and  after  giving  small 
touches  about  the  room  went  down-stairs. 

Left  alone  with  the  sick  man,  Charlie  Grace  felt 
himself  helpless.  He  could  think  of  little  or  nothing 
to  say.  He  examined  the  little  table  beside  the  bed, 
on  which  were  medicines,  iced  water,  and  a  bell.  He 

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followed  with  his  eye  the  outlines  of  Remnant's 
wizened  form,  which  scarcely  undulated  the  quilt  of 
red  and  white  diamonds  that  covered  it.  Remnant 
himself  did  most  of  the  talking.  Except  for  a  slight 
quaver,  his  voice  was  as  strong  as  ever.  His  re 
marks  turned  on  the  subjects  he  had  most  at  heart — 
the  church,  the  furnaces,  the  putting  in  of  next 
winter's  coal,  the  insufficiency  of  Jimmy  Page. 
Charlie  Grace  tried  to  speak  consolingly.  He  spoke 
artfully,  too — for  his  own  purposes. 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  fret  about  it,  Remnant,  if  I  were 
you.  It  '11  be  all  the  same  a  hundred  years  hence." 

But  Remnant  was  not  comforted.  "I've  got 
nothing  to  do  with  what  '11  be  a  hundred  years 
hence,  Mr.  Charlie.  It  ain't  all  the  same  now" 

"Where  do  you  think  we  shall  be  a  hundred  years 
hence — you  and  I?" 

There  was  a  sudden  canny  glitter  in  Remnant's 
glance.  "Are  you  askin'  me  that  because  you  think 
I'm  going  to  die,  Mr.  Charlie?" 

"No;   but  because  I  think  I'm  going  to." 

"Oh,  sho!  Mr.  Charlie.  You  ain't  going  to  die 
for  a  long  spell  yet;  whereas  I — " 

"You — what,  Remnant  ?"  Charlie  Grace  was  real 
ly  curious  to  know  what  was  in  Remnant's  mind. 
He  was  curious  to  see  whether  his  dim  soul  held 
hopes  or  fears  or  faiths.  "You — what,  Remnant?" 
he  said  again. 

But  the  old  man  turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  "Oh, 
nothing." 

Charlie  Grace  persisted.  "You  don't  think  you're 
going  to  die,  do  you?" 

He  spoke  sadly.  "Oh,  I  do'  know  about  that.  I 
shouldn't  wonder." 

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"And  if  you  did,  Remnant,  what  do  you  think 
would  happen  to  you?" 

The  reply  took  the  questioner  by  surprise.  Rem 
nant  looked  round  quickly.  "I'll  have  to  leave  it  to 
God  to  look  after  that,  sonny.  It  '11  be  up  to  Him." 

Charlie  Grace  persisted  still.  "And  you're  not 
afraid  of  Him? — of  God?" 

Remnant  gave  a  little  sniff.  "I've  been  forty-odd 
year  sexton  of  His  house,  tryin'  to  make  it  clean  and 
respectable,  and  keep  out  the  riffraff.  I  guess  He's 
not  the  one  to  go  back  on  a'  old  servant.  If  I  was 
going  to  be  afraid  of  Him,  sonny,  I  ought  to  ha'  be 
gun  before  now." 

Charlie  Grace  had  no  more  questions  to  ask. 
After  all,  this  was  faith,  the  very  heart  of  faith.  It 
summed  up  Remnant's  duty  toward  God  and  his 
neighbor  as  he  understood  it,  and  went  still  further. 
After  this  discovery  the  conversation  flagged,  and 
presently  Charlie  Grace  rose  to  go. 

"You  must  let  me  know  if  there's  anything  I  can 
do  for  you,  old  boy — anything  you  would  like,  or 
that  Mrs.  Grace  could  send  you." 

There  was  another  gleam  in  the  little  eyes. 
"Thank  you,  Mr.  Charlie.  There  is  something  I 
should  like.  I  haven't  wanted  to  ask  Miss  Esther. 
She's  such  a*  angel,  she's  thought  o'  everything 
—but  this." 

"What  is  it,  Remnant?  I  can't  tell  you  what  a 
pleasure  it  will  give  me." 

"  It's  a  nice  bit  o'  sausage,  Mr.  Charlie.     This 
here  Mrs.  Williams  don't  give  me  nothing  but  beef- 
tea  and  slops  o'  that  kind.      But  I  feel  as  if  a  nice 
bit  o'  sausage,  cooked  till  it  splits — that's  the  way  I 
-like  it,  Mr.  Charlie — 'u'd  do  me  good." 

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"You  shall  have  it,  Remnant,  if  it's  to  be  found  in 
New  York/' 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Charlie.  It's  just  as  if  you  was 
a  son  to  me.  And  there's  one  other  thing." 

"Yes?     What  is  it?" 

"If  I  do  die,  Mr.  Charlie,  I  have  money  in  the 
bank,  and  my  will  made  reg'lar,  with  three  witnesses, 
and  everything  lawful.  All  I've  got  '11  go  to  Miss 
Esther — all  except  a  little  present  to  you,  sonny. 
Oh,  it  won't  be  much,"  he  hastened  to  add,  as 
Charlie  Grace  colored  and  blew  his  nose;  "just 
enough  to  buy  you  a  little  something  to  remember 
me  by." 

"I  don't  need  anything  to  help  me  to  do  that, 
Remnant,"  he  managed  to  say. 

"I  know  you  don't,  sonny;  but  I  like  to  think 
you'll  have  it.  But  there's  this  thing.  The  law 
yers  '11  pay  for  my  funeral;  only  I'd  like  you  to  see 
that  it  '11  be  a  good  funeral,  Mr.  Charlie." 

"It  will  be  the  very  best,  Remnant." 

"If  I  didn't  speak  about  it  beforehand  they  might 
put  me  off  with  a  cheap  second-hand  affair,  thinking 
it  'u'd  be  good  enough.  But  I  shouldn't  want  that 
at  all,  Mr.  Charlie — me  that  has  had  so  much  to  do 
with  funerals  all  my  life." 

"Naturally." 

"And  if  you  could  come  to  the  church  yourself, 
sonny — and  sit  in  the  top  pew  on  the  right,  where 
you  used  to  sit  with  your  ma  when  you  was  a  little 
boy- 

"Of  course  I  will;  and  Mrs.  Grace  will  come,  too." 

"I  don't  suppose  poor  old  Miss  Smedley  '11  be  able 
to  hobble  out,  even  if  she  don't  go  before  me;  but 
if  Miss  Fanny  Hornblower  is  in  town — " 

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"I'll  see  that  she  comes,  Remnant.  And  I'll  have 
the  Furnivals,  and  any  others  of  the  old  crowd  I  can 
think  of.  You  leave  it  all  to  me." 

Remnant  sighed,  contentedly.  He  seemed  tired. 
"That  '11  be  very  pleasant,  very  pleasant  indeed. 
It's  just  as  if  you  was  a  son  to  me,  Mr.  Charlie. 
And  there's  one  more  thing."  Charlie  Grace  waited. 
"Will  you  just  see  that  that  there  Jimmy  Page  has 
the  trestles  well  dusted  for  the  coffin  to  stand  on? 
He's  an  awful  poor  hand  to  dust — thinking  of  his 
theayters.  I  wouldn't  be  buried  by  him  at  all — 
not  by  a  convick,  I  wouldn't  be — only  for  not  want 
ing  to  hurt  the  feelings  o'  poor  Parson  Legrand. 
He's  a  good  man,  Parson  Legrand;  but  he  don't 
understand  religion.  Never  did,  and  never  will." 

Having  given  the  necessary  assurances  as  to  the 
dusting  of  the  trestles  by  Jimmy  Page,  Charlie  Grace 
shook  hands  with  his  old  friend,  promising  to  come 
soon  again;  but  the  intimacy  which  had  begun,  so 
to  speak,  with  his  birth,  and  survived  all  the  changes 
in  his  career,  had  come  to  its  earthly  end. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WHEN  Charlie  Grace  came  down  the  stairs 
Esther  was  in  the  act  of  saying  good-by  to 
Mrs.  Williams.  He  and  she,  therefore,  left  the 
house  together.  Through  the  respective  spheres 
of  Anglo-Saxon,  Slavic,  and  Semitic  influence  they 
passed  along  side  by  side  toward  Vandiver  Place. 
Progress  was  rendered  slow  by  the  necessity  of  ex 
changing  remarks  with  occasional  mothers,  and  re 
sponding  to  cries  of  "Hullo,  Miss  Legra-a-ne!"  from 
urchins  and  elfins  in  the  street.  It  was  only  on 
reaching  the  comparative  calm  of  the  regions  given 
up  to  commerce  that  Charlie  Grace  found  the  oppor 
tunity  to  say: 

!    "How  much  do  you  believe  of  that  hymn   you 
were  repeating  to  Remnant?" 

She  glanced  at  him  from  beneath  the  rim  of  her 
parasol.  The  little  primrose-colored  freckles  across 
her  nose  were  the  more  golden  because  of  a  light  sea 
shore  tan.  "Why,  I  believe  all  of  it." 

"But  what  makes  you  believe  it?" 

She  took  a  minute  for  reflection.  "I  suppose  I 
believe  it  because  I  know." 

"Yes;   but  how  do  you  know?" 

She  was  obliged  to  reflect  again.  "I  don't  know 
how  I  know.  I  only — know." 

"You  know  because  you've  heard  the  same  thing 
said  so  often  that  you  take  it  for  granted.  Isn't  that 
so?" 

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"That's  partly  it.  I  suppose  I  know  because 
father  told  me,  in  the  first  place;  and  because  I 
found  it  in  the  Bible,  in  the  next;  and  then  because 
I  proved  it  was  true — by  my  own  experience." 

"What  sort  of  experience?" 

"Oh,  I  can  hardly  tell  you  that.  But  it's  been  real 
experience — just  as  real  as  any  one's."  She  added, 
later:  "And  yet  none  of  these  things  answers  what 
you  asked  me.  Now  that  I  think  of  it,  I  see  that 
there's  something  else — something  over  and  above 
them — and  more  important  than  any  of  them — and 
I  know  most  of  all  by — that." 

"By  that?     By  what?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  can't  tell  you.  It's  like 
an  extra  sense  that  you  couldn't  describe  to  any  one 
who  didn't  have  it,  too." 

"That's  hard  on  the  people  who  haven't  got  it, 
isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  but  everybody  has  it.  I'm  sure  they  must 
have  it.  It  can't  be  anything  that's  given  especially 
to  me — and  a  few  others.  That  wouldn't  be  just. 
Everybody  must  have  it.  Only" — she  reflected  again 
— "only  —  if  you  don't  use  it  it  must  become 
atrophied.  Wouldn't  that  be  it?" 

"That  would  be  it,  if  you  choose  to  take  it  so. 
But  I  don't  see  any  compulsion  for  taking  it  so." 

"You  can't  help  taking  it  so — if  the  extra  sense 
isn't  atrophied." 

They  walked  on  for  some  minutes  in  silence. 
"I'm  sorry  it  depends  on  the  possession  of  an  extra 
sense,"  he  said,  returning  to  a  topic  from  which,  ap 
parently,  he  couldn't  keep  away,  "because  I've  only 
got  the  ordinary  five." 

"I  didn't  say  it  depended  on  an  extra  one;  I  said 
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the  extra  one  confirmed  the  knowledge  of  it.  And 
so  it  does.  But  if  you  reject  the  idea  to  begin  with 
— why,  then,  the  confirmation  isn't  of  any  good,  is 
it?"  She  let  the  parasol  dip  to  one  side  to  throw 
him  one  of  her  frank  smiles.  "What  makes  you 
fight  against  it  so?" 

He  started.  "Fight  against  it?  Am  I  fighting 
against  it?" 

"Well,  aren't  you?  You  seem  to  me  to  be  fighting 
against  it  like  a  man" — she  threw  him  another 

smile — "like  a  man  who's  afraid  he's  going  to  give 

» 
in. 

If  this  was  a  challenge  he  ignored  it  to  say:  "I 
used  to  believe  it — in  a  way.  But  I  saw  what  it 
made  of  people." 

"Oh,  that's  no  test,"  she  said,  quickly.  "The 
only  proof  is  in  seeing  what  it  can  make  of  you. 
That's  what  helps  us  to  distinguish  between  what 
it  does  make  of  people  and  what  it  can.  The  touch 
stone  has  to  be  within  oneself."  As  they  neared  the 
corner  of  Vandiver  Place  she  went  on  to  say:  "But 
if  you  want  to  discuss  these  things,  won't  you  come 
in  and  talk  to  father?  He  knows  about  them,  and  I 
don't.  I  only  know  what  I'm  convinced  of  myself; 
and  very  likely  I  can't  give  you  the  correct  reasons 
even  so." 

"And  what  about  the  great  news?"  he  asked,  as 
they  took  the  turning  toward  the  rectory.  "Has 
Coningsby  told  it  yet?" 

"Oh  yes;  and  it's  all  right.  That  is,  it's  all  right 
with  father.  Poor  mother  takes  it  rather  hardly. 
Of  course  it's  a  disappointment  to  her,  and  Ralph  and 
I  must  recognize  the  fact." 

He  tried  to  laugh.     "I  don't  see  how  she  could 


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have  expected  you  to  marry  a  rich  man  if,  as  you  say, 
none  ever  turned  up." 

"No;  nor  I.  But  poor  mother  thinks  one  would 
have  turned  up  if  I'd  waited.  In  fact,  she  says  she 
knew  of  one — if  I'd  only  given  him  time." 

"But  why  did  he  need  time?" 

"That's  what  I  want  to  know.  Mother  says  it 
was  because  everything  wasn't  smooth  sailing  for 
the  poor  man,  but  that  he  would  have  got  the  diffi 
culties  cleared  out  of  the  way  so  as  to  ask  me — if 
I  hadn't  been  in  such  a  hurry." 

He  hesitated  over  his  next  question,  deciding  in 
the  end  to  ask  it.  "  Have  you  any  idea  who  it  is?" 

"  Not  the  slightest.  I  really  don't  think  it's  any 
one.  Poor  mama  is  fanciful  about  things  of  that 
kind.  She  can  make  herself  believe  anything  she 
likes." 

"And  are  you  sorry  you  didn't  wait?" 

The  answer  was  in  a  sidelong  glance  of  the  violet 
eyes — a  shy  glance,  but  one  that  was  also  full  of 
laughter. 

He  felt  nothing  strange  in  being  able  to  talk  to 
her  in  this  way,  with  no  sense  of  loss  on  his  side. 
If  there  was  anything  strange  it  was  in  the  fact  that 
she  hadn't,  through  all  these  years,  been  engaged  to 
Ralph  Coningsby,  with  his  own  blessing  on  the 
match.  He  himself  had  traveled  far  beyond  all 
interests  of  the  kind.  He  differed  from  Remnant  in 
that  respect.  Remnant  could  carry  his  mortal  pre 
occupations  right  up  to  the  gates  of  death,  and  be 
yond  them.  He  could  be  concerned  for  the  furnace 
pipes  and  the  winter's  coal  for  seasons  when  he 
should  not  be  here.  Undoubtedly  this  was  the 
larger  view;  but  he,  Charlie  Grace,  was  incapable 

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of  taking  it.  For  him  the  mortal  was  as  if  it  had 
already  passed;  and  Esther  Legrand,  with  all  the 
dreams  she  had  inspired,  had  passed  with  it.  His 
mind  could  give  itself  now  only  to  the  possibilities 
that  might  arise  when  this  mortal  should  have  put 
on  immortality — if  any  such  transmutation  were 
ever  to  take  place. 

For  this  reason  he  plunged  into  the  heart  of  the 
subject  as  soon  as  he  was  seated  in  the  study,  face 
to  face  with  Rufus  Legrand.  He  dismissed  the 
rector's  explanations  of  the  plans  for  the  memorial 
parish-house  by  saying: 

"The  reason  I  want  the  thing  put  through  pretty 
quickly  is  that  I'm  going  to  die." 

At  sixty-four  years  of  age  it  was  not  often  that 
Rufus  Legrand  was  startled;  but  now  he  showed  his 
dismay.  The  long,  ascetic  face  grew  ashen,  and  the 
eyes  lost  their  mild,  searching  light.  "What  do  you 
mean,  Charlie?" 

The  younger  man  told  the  tale  of  his  illness  and 
his  interviews  with  the  physicians.  "They  give  me 
two  years,"  he  said,  in  conclusion.  "That  will 
mean  a  little  more  or  a  little  less,  as  the  case  may 
be." 

;  Legrand  rose  from  his  chair  in  the  corner,  and, 
coming  forward,  stood  with  his  hands  resting  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  man  whom  he  had  known  from  his 
childhood  upward,  looking  down  into  his  eyes. 
"This  is  one  of  the  hardest  situations,  Charlie,  I've 
ever  seen  a  man  forced  to  meet;  but  I  know  you'll 
have  the  pluck  to  face  it." 

With  Legrand's  hands  resting  still  on  his  shoulders, 
Charlie  Grace  turned  his  face  away.  "I  have  the 
pluck,  all  right;  I  haven't  anything  else." 

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"What  else  is  there?  What  else  do  you  mean 
— in  your  case?" 

Charlie  Grace  smiled.     "I  like  the  'in  your  case.": 

Legrand  removed  his  hands,  standing  with  his 
back  to  the  empty  fireplace  in  an  attitude  reminding 
Charlie  Grace  of  his  own  father,  on  the  same  spot. 
"Precisely,"  he  said,  almost  dryly.  "We  must 
speak  to  the  case  in  point,  mustn't  we?  From  what 
I've  understood  you  to  say,  pluck  would  be  the 
highest  thing  you  could  furnish — in  the  circum 
stances.  Isn't  that  so?" 

"Quite  so.     I've  nothing  else." 

"In  that  case,  Charlie,  my  dear  boy,  all  I  can  do 
is  to  be  with  you  as  much  as  I  can  in  heart — as  I  am 
— you  must  know  that — and  pray  for  you  in  silence. 
I — I  always  do  pray  for  you." 

Charlie  Grace  got  up  and  began  stalking  about 
the  room.  He  was  dissatisfied,  even  disappointed. 
Legrand's  method  of  disposing  of  him  without  argu 
ment,  or  effort  at  convincing  him,  always  produced 
in  him  a  sense  of  irritation.  "You're  a  queer  man, 
Mr.  Legrand,"  was  all  he  could  say  now. 

"Am  I?  I  suppose  we  all  have  our  idiosyncrasies. 
I  don't  hurt  your  feelings  in  any  way,  do  I  ?" 

"No;  not  exactly."  He  turned  on  him  abruptly. 
"I've  got  pluck;  but  you've  got  something  else. 
What  is  it?" 

Legrand  looked  at  him  long.  "Can't  you  answer 
that  question  for  yourself?" 

"I  can  answer  it  for  myself  as  far  as  the  mere 
phrases  go.  I  can't  get  at  what's  behind  the 
words." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  can't — or  that  in  your 
heart  of  hearts  you  don't  want  to?" 

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Charlie  Grace  started  again  to  stalk  about  the 
room.  "In  my  heart  of  hearts  I  don't  care  anything 
about  it.  The  thing  is  not  for  me — whatever  it  is. 
I'm  only  curious." 

"Curious— why?" 

"Curious  to  see  people  do  in  one  way  the  thing 
I've  got  to  do  in  another." 

"You  mean— die?" 

He  nodded,  while  he  continued  his  pacing.  "That 
kind  of  curiosity  seems  to  me  fairly  legitimate, 
however  it  may  shock  you." 

"It  doesn't  shock  me — put  in  that  way.  But 
may  I  ask  how  it  is  that  you've  got  to  do  it?" 

Charlie  Grace  smiled,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
"That  rather  stumps  me.  I  suppose  I've  got  to  do 
it  on  the  principle  of — grin  and  bear  it." 

"The  Stoic's  principle.  And  how  do  you  imagine 
the  other  people,  of  whom  you've  just  been  speaking, 
do  it?" 

"That's  what  I  want  you  to  tell  me." 

"Have  you  had  no  experience  that  would  enable 
you  to  judge  for  yourself?" 

Charlie  Grace  paused  in  his  walk,  looking  down 
meditatively  at  his  boots.  "I've  seen  a  few  people 
die — not  many — men  who  would  have  been  called 
Christians,  in  a  general  way — who  got  Christian 
burial,  at  any  rate.  They've  been  all  sorts,  from 
good  men  like  my  father  to  rough  specimens  in  the 
Northwest.  I  can't  say" — he  spoke  slowly — "I 
can't  say  that  their  religion  made  the  dying  any 
easier  for  them." 

"Did  it  do  anything  for  them  at  all?" 

He  looked  up  suddenly.     "Sometimes — yes." 

"What?" 

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"I  don't  know.  Or  if  I  do  know  I  can't  express  it. 
It — it  gave  them  something  to  look  forward  to." 

"  Something — good  ?" 

Charlie  Grace  contemplated  his  boots  for  a  minute 
or  two  more.  "I  don't  believe  that  that  was  the  first 
consideration — whether  it  was  good  or  not.  It  was 
something." 

"And  anything  is  better  than  nothing.   Is  that  it?" 

"That's  something  like  it." 

"And  was  it  all?" 

"It  wasn't  always  all.  It  wasn't  all,  for  example, 
in  such  cases  as  my  father's." 

"And  what  was  it,  then?" 

He  resumed  his  walk.  "That's  something  you 
must  know  better  than  I." 

"I'm  not  sure  of  that — not  by  any  means.  If 
you'd  tell  me  how  it  struck  you — " 

"It  struck  me  like  this — and  I  can't  put  it  better 
than  in  your  own  words — that  they  saw  a  certain — 
Door;  and  they  walked  right  up  to  it." 

For  the  first  time  since  the  beginning  of  the 
conversation  Legrand's  face  was  illumined  by  its 
peculiar  smile.  "Well,  what's  to  hinder  you  from 
doing  the  same?" 

Charlie  Grace  frowned,  striding  more  rapidly. 
"Oh,  lots  of  things.  I'm  not  that  sort." 

"You're  not  that  sort — why?" 

"Oh,  for  hundreds  of  reasons,"  he  said,  shortly. 
"It  would  be  absurd." 

"And  of  the  hundreds  of  reasons  would  it  be 
possible  for  you  to  give  me  one?" 

"I  can  give  you  them  all  in  a  word.  I  use  the 
word  because  it  will  appeal  to  you  —  not  that  it 
means  anything  in  particular  to  me.  It's — Sin." 

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"Oh,  is  that  all?" 

"It's  all;  but  in  my  case  it  covers  a  good  deal  of 
ground."  He  stopped,  taking  hold  of  the  back  of 
Legrand's  revolving  chair,  and  confronting  the  rector 
across  the  desk  littered  with  papers.  "A  chap — 
his  name  was  Ellis — once  called  me  in  a  public  place 
'the  damnedest  hound  unhung.'  I  ran  away  from 
him  at  the  time  because  I  knew  it  was  true;  and  now 
I  know  it  better." 

"That's  a  very  good  beginning." 

"But  a  damned  poor  end.     Excuse  the  word,  sir." 

"Yes;  it  is  a  damned  poor  end — if  you  make  it  the 
end." 

"What  else  can  you  make  it?" 

"I've  just  said  that;  the  beginning — the  begin 
ning  of — walking  right  up  to — the  Door." 

Charlie  Grace  nodded  his  head  up  and  down 
ironically.  "And  after  having  had  all  the  fun  of  this 
world  start  in  to  get  the  best  of  the  next.  That's 
where  I  take  issue  with  your  religion  first  of  all,  sir. 
It  seems  to  me  unmanly — and  immoral.  It's  like 
buying  a  thing  and  sneaking  out  of  the  price." 
•  Legrand,  whose  eyes  were  downcast,  looked  up 
with  a  peculiar  expression.  "Have  you  been  getting 
all  the  fun  of  this  world?  It  doesn't  seem  to  me 
much  fun  to  have  to  consider  oneself  the  damnedest 
hound  unhung." 

Charlie  Grace  colored.  "That's  not  the  fun.  It's 
the  price  of  it." 

"A  pretty  steep  price,  isn't  it?" 

"It  is  a  steep  price,  but — "     _. 

"  But  the  fun  was  worth  it.  Is  !that  what  you  were 
going  to  say?" 

"N-no." 

35  537 


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"Then  the  fun  wasn't  worth  it?" 

He  replied  somewhat  reluctantly.     "Hardly." 

"So  that  you've  been  cheated." 

"I  can't  say  that  I've  been  cheated.  It's  rather, 
perhaps,  that  I've  been — surprised." 

"Surprised,  that  is  to  say,  by  the  disproportion 
between  the  penalty  and  the  crime." 

"Oh,  the  crime  was  bad  enough.  I  don't  want  to 
underrate  the  gravity  of  that." 

"  But  haven't  you  noticed  that  Sin  is  always  its  own 
most  merciless  accuser  ?  If  it  condones  for  a  while  it's 
to  make  punishment  the  more  pitiless  in  the  end. 
It's  only  goodness — otherwise  God — that  draws  the 
distinction  between  a  temporal  offense  and  an  eternal 
penalty — and  consequently  yearns  to  forgive." 

Charlie  Grace  hung  his  head  moodily.  "  Even  so, 
it  would  seem  to  me  something  like  a  miscarriage 
of  justice  if  I  were  to  go  scot  free." 

"Have  you  gone  scot  free?  Is  it  going  scot  free 
to  call  yourself — to  be  obliged  to  call  yourself — 
the  damnedest  hound  unhung?" 

He  flushed  again,  more  hotly.  "Oh,  but  when  I 
am!  If  you  only  knew  me!  There's  hardly  any 
thing  I  haven't  done — or  been  willing  to  do.  Take 
an  instance.  Where  do  you  suppose  I  was  ? — what  do 
you  suppose  I  was  doing? — the  night  my  little  boy 
was  born?  Ellis  couldn't  have  put  the  thing  better 
if  he'd  been  with  me." 

"Well,  since  you  know  that — since  you're  so  con 
vinced  of  it — wouldn't  it  be  only  fair  that  there 
should  be  an  advocate  to  speak  in  your  defense? 
The  most  primitive  of  courts  allows  that." 

The  reply  was  almost  surly.  "I've  got  no  de 
fense.  For  the  things  I've  done — " 

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"There's  no  excuse.  Granted.  But  human  per 
sonality  is  a  big  thing,  Charlie,  and  a  strange  thing. 
We  know  very  little  about  it,  as  a  matter  of  fact. 
It  comes  into  the  world  trailing  clouds  of  glory  from 
subliminal  states  we're  only  beginning  to  make 
guesses  at.  If  I  know  anything  about  you,  and  you 
know  anything  about  me,  it's  no  more  than  simple 
people  know  of  a  star  when  they  see  a  faint  point 
of  light  millions  of  miles  away."  His  tone  changed 
slightly  as  he  went  on  to  add:  "You've  been  a  great 
sinner,  Charlie — don't  let  us  balk  at  the  word,  since 
it  expresses  what  we  both  mean — you've  been  a 
great  sinner.  But  to  say  that  sin  must  necessarily 
destroy  a  personality  like  yours,  with  its  gifts  and 
its  goodness  and  its  incalculable  value,  is  like  saying 
that  some  great  and  beautiful  garden  must  be 
trampled  down  or  rooted  up  because  there  are  weeds 
in  it.  Get  rid  of  your  weeds — and  you  still  have  the 
garden." 

There  was  long  silence,  during  which  Charlie 
Grace  continued  to  grasp  the  back  of  the  revolving 
chair,  swinging  it  nervously  this  way  and  that,  his 
eyes  fixed  absently  on  the  litter  of  papers  strewing 
the  desk.  When  he  looked  up  it  was  to  come  for 
ward  resolutely,  his  hand  outstretched.  His  head 
was  thrown  back  and  his  chin  tilted  defiantly, 
though  he  smiled. 

"It  sounds  very  nice,  sir — very  beautiful  and 
plausible — but  I  guess  I'll  take  my  medicine." 

Legrand  grasped  the  offered  hand,  smiling  also. 
With  his  free  hand  he  stroked  Charlie  Grace's  wavy 
hair  back  from  his  forehead  as  though  the  latter 
were  a  boy.  "Do  you  know  what  you  make  me 
think  of,  Charlie?"  He  looked  tenderly  into  the 

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sick,  sad  eyes,  of  which  the  irregular  fair  brows  were 
lifted  in  an  expression  of  inquiry.  "  It's  of  the  young 
man  of  whom  we're  told  that  Jesus — beholding  him 
— loved  him,  and  said  unto  him,  'One  thing  thou 
lackest.'  It  seems  to  me,"  he  went  on  slowly,  still 
with  a  gentle  smile,  "that  you  lack  but  one  thing — 
now;  and  that  you'll  find  it." 

But  Charlie  Grace  wrenched  his  hand  away,  and 
was  gone. 

That  was  on  a  Wednesday;  and  on  the  following 
Saturday  at  noon  Remnant  died,  sleeping  away 
quietly,  as  old  people  often  do. 

Having  received  the  news  by  telephone,  Charlie 
Grace  motored  at  once  to  the  city  to  redeem  his 
promise  as  to  the  funeral.  He  found  the  old  man 
still  lying  in  the  bed  in  much  the  same  attitude  as 
that  in  which  he  had  died.  But  the  alteration  in 
his  face  was  striking.  All  that  was  sunken  and 
bleared  had  been  transmuted  into  a  gently  smiling 
youth,  while  there  was  a  radiance  of  expression 
which  the  living  Remnant  had  never  shown.  Charlie 
Grace  had  heard  the  physical  explanation  of  this 
phenomenon,  and  yet  he  found  it  difficult  to  give 
it  all  the  credit  for  the  change. 

It  was  a  satisfaction  to  him,  during  the  next  forty- 
eight  hours,  to  superintend  the  fulfilment  of  Rem 
nant's  last  requests.  For  the  grave  he  selected  an 
attractive  spot  in  one  of  the  suburban  cemeteries; 
he  saw  that  the  coffin  was  as  good  as  money  could 
buy;  he  cautioned  Jimmy  Page  as  to  the  dusting  of 
the  trestles;  and  he  wrote  to  a  number  of  the  former 
parishioners  of  St.  David's,  begging  them  to  do  the 
old  man  the  last  favor  of  attending  the  services  on 

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Tuesday  afternoon.  On  Tuesday  afternoon  he  and 
Hilda,  with  the  little  boy,  Billy,  and  Esther  Legrand, 
acted  as  chief  mourners,  driving  directly  behind  the 
hearse  from  the  house  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  sphere  of 
influence  to  the  church. 

Up  to  the  minute  of  reaching  the  church  he  had 
carried  out  these  duties  as  a  pious  matter  of  course. 
He  had  a  sentiment  for  Remnant  such  as  moved  him 
toward  no  one  else  outside  his  own  family.  He 
could  still  hear  the  trembling,  querulous  voice  saying: 
"It's  just  as  if  you  was  a  son  to  me,  Mr.  Charlie." 
Never  having  been  able  really  to  assume  cares  on 
behalf  of  his  own  father,  he  was  specially  content  in 
doing  something  for  one  who  was  so  closely  asso 
ciated  with  the  traditions  of  his  youth. 

But  it  was  while  they  stood  in  the  church  porch 
that  he  began  to  feel  in  the  fulfilment  of  his  task 
an  element  higher  than  the  reverently  perfunctory. 
The  coffin  covered  with  flowers  having  been  placed  on 
the  bier,  he  and  Hilda  stood  behind  it — Esther  and 
the  little  boy  coming  after  them.  Suddenly  the 
doors  were  thrown  open  and  Rufus  Legrand,  in  sur 
plice  and  stole,  began  to  precede  them  up  the  aisle. 

"I  am  the  Resurrection,  and  the  Life,  saith  the 
Lord :  he  that  believeth  in  Me,  though  he  were  dead, 
yet  shall  he  live:  and  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth 
in  Me  shall  never  die." 

It  was  the  Voice  which,  as  a  Voice,  had  not  sounded 
in  his  ears  since  the  day  when  they  had  carried  his 
mother  to  the  little  graveyard  at  Horsehair  Hill. 
He  had  heard  the  same  words  often  enough  since 
then,  as  he  had  followed  one  and  another  where  he 
was  following  Remnant  now;  but  they  had  brought 
him  no  message.  Coming  out  of  the  half-empty 


THE     WAV    HOME 


church  the  Voice  had  the  effect  of  the  mysterious 
call  they  seemed  to  have  followed;  his  mother  first, 
his  father  next,  and  Remnant  last  of  the  three. 
Remnant  seemed  to  be  following  it  still — in — in — 
forward — forward — while  he  pressed  along  behind. 
It  was  Remnant  to-day;  it  would  be  himself  to-mor 
row — in — in — forward — forward — on — on. 

He  was  not,  however,  so  preoccupied  but  that  he 
could  notice,  with  the  subconscious  perceptions  at 
least,  that  a  fair  number  of  the  old  friends  had 
rallied  in  response  to  his  call.  Miss  Smedley  was 
there;  Mrs.  Furnival  was  there;  Furny  himself  was 
there;  Mrs.  Legrand  was  there;  Ralph  Coningsby 
was  there;  there  was  even  a  representation  of  the 
riffraff  Remnant  would  have  scorned.  Solemnly, 
insistently,  the  Voice  went  on: 

"Lord,  let  me  know  mine  end,  and  the  number 
of  my  days,  that  I  may  be  certified  how  long  I  have 
to  live.  Behold  thou  hast  made  my  days  as  it  were 
a  span  long,  and  mine  age  is  even  as  nothing  in  re 
spect  of  thee,  and  verily  every  man  living  is  altogether 
vanity.  For  man  walketh  in  a  vain  shadow  and  dis- 
quieteth  himself  in  vain;  he  heapeth  up  riches  and 
cannot  tell  who  shall  gather  them.  And  now,  Lord, 
what  is  my  hope?" 

The  response  came  as  out  of  the  composite 
heart  of  humankind.  "Truly,  my  hope  is  even 
in  thee." 

The  words  were  familiar  to  him  from  old  asso 
ciations.  They  were,  indeed,  so  familiar  that  he 
thought  himself  proof  against  the  way  in  which  they 
caught  him  up  now  into  a  world  of  which  the  length 
and  breadth  and  depth  and  height  were  of  more 
majestic  proportions  than  any  he  had  ever  allowed 

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his  spirit  to  frequent.  Though  he  persisted  in 
asserting  and  reasserting  that  they  brought  him 
nothing  and  taught  him  nothing,  they  nevertheless 
forced  themselves  on  his  inner  apprehension  with 
impressions  of  sonority,  immensity,  eternity,  that 
seemed  to  enlarge  his  perceptive  powers.  He 
thought  of  the  voice  of  many  waters;  he  thought  of 
the  peals  of  an  organ;  but  that  to  which  he  was  listen 
ing  had  a  grandeur  transcending  them.  It  was  as 
though  Time  itself,  with  all  the  gathered  aspirations, 
and  all  the  slowly  distilled  wisdom,  of  the  ages,  were 
breaking  into  human  speech. 

"Lord,  thou  hast  been  our  refuge  from  one  genera 
tion  to  another.  Before  the  mountains  were  brought 
forth,  or  ever  the  earth  and  the  world  were  made, 
thou  art  God  from  everlasting  and  world  without 
end.  Thou  turnest  man  to  destruction;  again  thou 
sayest,  'Come  again,  ye  children  of  men.'  For  a 
thousand  years  in  thy  sight  are  but  as  yesterday." 

And  then  the  note  changed.  The  plaintive  gave 
place  to  the  supernal.  It  was  as  though  he  were 
listening  to  an  anthem — an  anthem  such  as  he  had 
never  heard,  and  yet  could  imagine — an  anthem 
sung  by  celestial  voices  to  lutes  and  harps  and  cym 
bals  of  uplifting  appeal. 

"Now  is  Christ  risen  from  the  dead  and  become 
the  first-fruits  of  them  that  slept.  For  since  by  man 
came  death,  by  man  came  also  the  resurrection  of 
the  dead.  For  as  in  Adam  all  die,  even  so  in  Christ 
shall  all  be  made  alive.  But  every  man  is  his  own 
order.  Christ  the  first-fruits;  afterward — they  that 
are  Christ's." 

He  sat  in  the  front  pew  on  the  right,  as  Remnant 
had  requested.  Hilda  was  farther  away  from  the 

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central  aisle,  and  they  had  the  little  boy  between 
them.  Hilda's  face,  scarcely  concealed  by  her  thin 
black  veil,  was  grave  and  sweet.  There  was  a  quiet 
happiness  in  it,  too,  reminding  him  of  the  wonder 
worked  by  spring  after  it  has  set  free  a  frozen  north 
ern  river.  Billy  swung  his  long  legs  restlessly,  as  his 
father  had  swung  his  legs  restlessly  on  the  same 
spot  thirty-odd  years  before. 

In  order  to  divert  his  mind  from  thoughts  too  high 
and  heart-searching  Charlie  Grace  gave  his  atten 
tion  to  details.  He  tried  to  make  himself  realize  that 
Remnant  was  actually  shut  up  within  that  long, 
flower-covered  box.  Somehow,  the  pall  of  flowers 
over  the  poor  old  man  seemed  a  little  incongruous. 
He  went  back  to  the  day,  when  he  was  just  Billy's 
age,  on  which  he  had  found  Remnant  dusting  the 
trestles  for  old  Mrs.  Badger.  He  had  dusted  them 
for  many  another  since  then;  and  now  Jimmy  Page 
had  dusted  them  for  him.  He  looked  at  Jimmy 
Page  more  critically,  finding  some  sympathy  with 
Remnant's  ill  opinion.  He  wondered  if  it  would 
be  Jimmy  Page  who  in  two  years'  time  would  be 
dusting  the  trestles  for  his  own  long  flower-covered 
box.  Doubtless  they  would  cover  his  box  with 
flowers,  too,  though  the  process  would  be  as  incon 
gruous  in  his  case  as  in  Remnant's.  He  wondered 
if  they  would  bring  him  to  St.  David's  or  give  him 
Christian  burial  at  all.  Probably  they  would — for 
his  wife's  and  his  father's  sakes.  He  knew  the 
Church  was  lenient,  or  perhaps  lax,  in  that  way. 
He  speculated  as  to  whether  this  was  due  to  Anglican 
charity  or  Anglican  pusillanimity — coming  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  might  be  ascribed  to  a  little  of  both. 
His  own  sympathies,  as  far  as  he  had  any,  were  for 

544 


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the  bold  policy  of  the  Roman  Church,  which  reserves 
its  offices  for  the  faithful. 

Thus  he  succeeded  in  keeping  his  mind  detached 
till  the  apostolic  strains  broke  in  on  him  again,  like 
billows  that  brook  no  resistance. 

"So  also  is  the  resurrection  of  the  dead.  It  is 
sown  in  corruption  —  it  is  raised  in  incorruption; 
it  is  sown  in  dishonor — it  is  raised  in  glory;  it  is 
sown  in  weakness — it  is  raised  in  power;  it  is  sown 
a  natural  body — it  is  raised  a  spiritual  body.  There 
is  a  natural  body,  and  there  is  a  spiritual  body. 
And  so  it  is  written:  The  first  man  Adam  was  made  a 
living  soul;  the  last  Adam  was  made  a  quickening 
spirit.  .  .  .  The  first  man  is  of  the  earth,  earthy; 
the  second  man  is  the  Lord  from  heaven.  .  .  .  And 
as  we  have  borne  the  image  of  the  earthy,  we  shall 
also  bear  the  image  of  the  heavenly." 

Again  it  was  the  Voice,  the  Call,  singling  him  out 
as  though  it  were  addressed  to  him  alone.  He  was 
troubled,  alarmed.  He  felt  himself  rising  to  follow 
it— rising  whether  he  would  or  no — rising  and  leaving 
Hilda,  and  the  children,  and  Esther,  and  all  the 
interests  he  had  cherished  and  clung  to,  behind  him 
— rising  as  by  a  spell — rising  as  under  an  enchant 
ment — rising  because  he  could  do  nothing  else  but 
rise — and  go.  Physically  he  knew  he  was  sitting 
still  in  his  corner  of  the  pew;  and  yet  in  some  inward 
and  spiritual  and  vital  constituent  of  himself  he  was 
sure  he  was  being  carried — swept — irresistibly  for 
ward. 

Then,  suddenly,  it  was  as  if  all  the  trumpets  of 
heaven  were  ringing  to  him  in  one  great  cry. 

"So  when  this  corruptible  shall  have  put  on  in 
corruption,  and  this  mortal  shall  have  put  on  immor- 

545 


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tality,  then  shall  be  brought  to  pass  the  saying  that  is 
written:    Death  is  swallowed  up  in  victory!" 

"Death  is  swallowed  up  in  victory!  Death  is 
swallowed  up  in  victory!  Death  is  swallowed  up  in 
victory!" 

He  repeated  the  words  as  one  who  says  "Amen! 
Amen!  Amen!"  He  repeated  them  because  they 
came  back  to  him  stored  with  memories  long  laid 
aside,  but  all  at  once  become  living.  He  repeated 
them  as  a  phrase  too  heavily  laden  with  prophecy  for 
him  to  comprehend  as  yet,  but  of  which  comprehen 
sion  might  not  be  far  away.  He  recalled  the  evening 
— the  very  first  evening  his  mother  lay  in  her  grave — 
when  he  had  asked  his  father  what  the  saying  meant. 
It  came  back  to  him  as  if  it  had  been  last  night. 
The  little  study,  with  the  photographs  of  English 
cathedrals  on  the  walls;  the  desk  in  the  middle  of 
the  room;  the  portly  figure;  the  handsome,  heavy- 
lidded  face;  the  pen  poised  in  the  hand;  the  words 
"My  dear  Bishop,"  legible  upside  down;  the  odor 
of  boiling  fruit  and  sugar,  because  Julia  had  been 
making  raspberry  jam.  He  lived  it  all  again,  as 
though  there  never  had  been  any  such  thing  as 
Time. 

"Do  you  understand  it?"  he  could  hear  his  father 
asking  when  he  had  finished  his  explanation. 

"I  think  I  understand  some  of  it,  papa." 

"Some  of  it  is  all  you  can  be  expected  to  under 
stand  now.  The  rest  will  come  when  you're  older." 

Would  it  come  when  he  was  older?  Was  it  coming 
— now? 

He  repeated  the  words  again.  "Death  is  swal 
lowed  up  in  victory!  Death  is  swallowed  up  in  vic 
tory!  Death  is  swallowed  up  in  victory!" 

546 


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He  remembered  that  by  saying  it  in  a  certain  way 
it  had  a  sound  like  the  booming  of  cannon — or  was 
it  the  ringing  of  bells  ?  It  had  a  throb  and  a  measure 
to  it,  too.  One  could  walk  to  it.  One  could  walk 
to  it  like  a  priest  or  a  soldier  or  a  mourner  or  a  man 
who  was  going  to  die.  Armies  might  have  walked 
to  it.  Holy  men  and  martyrs  might  have  walked 
to  it.  Driven  slaves  might  have  walked  to  it. 
His  uncle  Frank  might  have  walked  to  it  when  he 
marched  toward  Gettysburg.  His  father  had  walked 
to  it,  out  of  the  little  church  at  Horsehair  Hill. 
He  himself  had  walked  to  it  then.  He  himself  was 
walking  to  it  now.  He  was  walking  to  it  now  as  he 
followed  when  they  picked  up  Remnant's  body  and 
carried  it  down  the  aisle — down  the  aisle  and  out  into 
the  porch.  He  was  walking  to  it  alone,  with  no 
companionship  of  friend  or  wife  or  child.  He  was 
walking  to  it  with  shoulders  squared,  with  head 
erect,  with  eyes  steady,  and  with  something  new  and 
unconquerable  in  his  heart.  He  was  walking  to  it 
resolutely,  undismayed.  He  was  walking  to  it  as 
along  a  Way — a  Way  leading  to  a  Glory — a  Glory 
that  seemed  to  be — a  Door. 


THE    END 


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